(tempered sails)

My brain is the ink staining her loose fingertips.

And once more i crave new definition. new lust. new energy. new fucking time to smear my plastic phrases across the universe (no i don't feel like being realistic. i rarely do. only when i'm stuck in those ruts i've dug out long ago for myself do i really dwell in the right kind of headspace to stop and thinking about things as they really are [usually obtusely with a self-denigrating end] or, at least, how a half-drunk drowsy mind ever gets a chance to see them...so fuck it for the time being).

I don't know how or why or when this fucking hit me. perhaps when i licked the envelope and sealed my first sanskrit in damn near a year. perhaps when i stole a few minutes of sleep and beer.

But i think its high time i fucking realized that it doesn't matter worth a damn where i am or what the fuck i'm doing to keep the money rolling right in to pay the debt i must be sinking in so long as i keep my heart clean and these ham hands busy with the rat-a-tap-tapping.