(folding lines)

My brain is the crack that calls morning out from under the last grips of those shiftless sons of bitches we call our own or us as the case so often seems to be. the shattering light of new hope. new chances. opportunities to stand up and smash every fucking thing to pieces just to see what it would be like to have nothing but a name and a place and the willingness to do something right with the time we have left even if it measures long enough to see it all really and trul end in a blaze on unspeakable glory the likes of which no no brooding highschool half-baked anecdote could have ever possibly conceived. even if we don't see a sunday coming down again like it did when we were kids and all we had to fret over was the homework that might have shaped us if we'd ever bothered with accomplishing other than a certain take on flipping the bird that still makes certain folks nervous because of the way it cops a palsy.

But then again (and herein lies the perspective) there are so many things we never could have achieved that grant us a solace to sleep.