the inevitability of my own wet feet. each day molests me secretly. and this world i care nothing for. there is a fine line to live in. between where i am. and the world, but i can't seem to get there. the unimportance of myself. and the vastness too, which only escapes itself, becoming an unsurpassable aloofness. i often wonder why death won't take me now. not to sound so dramatic. but what has man to offer me. what does the earth give. i expect nothing from the world. and desperately try to amputate myself from it. but when that starts to work, i feel a failure. there is no place for me in this world.

it was half and quiet light through the kitchen window. and i sat basking in all the silence life had to offer, while straddling your lap. as we sat on a wooden chair, in our underclothes. the room sparse and dim with the oncoming morning. my head on your left shoulder. absorbing pleasantries, and dark hair. and thoughts of absolutely nothing.

you will grow a man's face. and i will live in the woods delightfully alone. secreting little ditties about nothing in particular. out in the woods with old oaks and maybe some birch too. i always loved birch especially. and willows will surround me, because i have to tell them it's all going to work out just fine. i like the way they mope lazy like, very sad in the wind. with their heads down. and maybe cedar can join us, to make the air smell nice. in a forest for myself. with an accordion, and some assorted amount of other things, all very useful. a year maybe? i don't know how long. some sort of eternity out there. a completely different loving life, to nurture and be nurtured by the sky and cotton ball clouds. i'd like to see a river, or creek, spring. the summer prime, with red sun dresses. always and only red. everyday. a washcloth and some wine. i ride my blue bike into town for cigarettes and oats. perhaps a kitten named kleine fräulien. or "touchknife." olin slaughter will be there. along with rhonda metroux. we will avoid corn at all cost, as it may be a lot smarter than initially given credit. let us see. now. we have the oak, the birch, the willow, the cedar, the creek, the cat, and the accordion. and the assortment of other useful things. very sparse, you have to understand. minimal and pleasant. the birds will be there anyway, so there's no need to invite them. but i do hope that the red-winged black birds get wind of this. and show their pretty faces.

she had to stop. to cleanse herself she soaked in silence. if life were to be made into a math equation. stripped down into theorems and logic.