(katydid hymns)

My brain is the sliver of crocodile tears still staining the old man's tail.

And the question now is just how far we go before the delirium finally sets in. shit. all i want to do is sleep it off. the day. the week. the month. the year. the hours upon hours staring all rat-a-tap in front of idiot machines trying to make something powerful out of me and the click-boom machine i'd like to call a second act if i had the balls and the wherewithall to find my right way around the fucking thing.

Not that i have, at the moment, anything all that much worth running from. i might even be smiling if there weren't so many muscles working their way to get my face down and into the cradle of an end to the day i had all but guaranteed would wind up badly.

And it did.

But that's just working. that's just the grind of new york city (and fucking la la's angels as the case may be). that's what i have to do to stay alive and floating high above the sea of flailing groundlings who stepped onto these streets for all the right reasons only to realize they'd done themselves a good dose of wrong.

So i do. so fuck it, this evening.

I just want a good dose of sleep and i already know, by the digital bomb sitting on my window sill just waiting for the right part of the dream to shatter every hope of stealing glory, that i won't.

Ugh.

Might as well have another smoke.