(foraging homes)

My brain is a cheap stunt on the old line about forgiving the forgotten ones long left behind.

I am suddenly very mournful.

Dwelling in my life again and wondering when it was that gusto got me nothing but a bed and a door and this idiot box. how i grew tired. lazy. strange and lonely as hell for so much i just can't have (and perhaps, just shouldn't).

It's not the holidays. it's not my family. my friends (really). love (lively or unrequited).

It's just a gray i might have known. may still. will again that has me wishing this night could last a lifetime.

Because dawn, tonight, reminds me of falsehoods.

The kinds that make most men, but not me.