(stake in ears)

My brain is a bedpost lying battered in the corner among familiar sediments from the year, some, scattered from strange bedrooms to smoky floor somewhere in queens.

And this makes a hundred.

I'm not sure that really means anything. maybe it doesn't. perhaps just having a marker doesn't justify any recognition at all, but the event is so rare in my life (i have the tendency to let occasions just pass me by) that i feel the need to take a moment and pause to simply acknowledge that i have allocated enough time in my life to simp and scream a hundred times into this growing vacuum of space because i feel, every now and fucking again, that i have something to say.

Nothing poetic and certainly nothing perfect.

Hell, half the times i don't even know that i'm write as i sit half-drunk (or better most nights) typing blind along some fucking stream of consciousness (an idea i so vehemently despised for such a chunk of time it's a wonder i can even recognize the relative facets of my mind) is even right.

But i do it.

On and on and on.

Because it's cheap and so am i.

No, that seems unjustified.

I guess i don't know why.

I really just like writing. to anyone. to no one. to the space between me and her. us and them. you and i. in the hopes that maybe someone, someday might steal a smile from what i'm saying.

Just a breath.

A respite in their trenches where they can feel what i do sometimes, just for a moment.

To be honest, i don't know how these reach out to people or if they do at all but the simple delusion is enough to keep me returning to this fucking stained keyboard and old idiot box smoking hard and rocking softly along the magnificent line.

These are my hours. this is my life. the most precious mess you're ever likely to find.

At least, that's how i'll remember it.