(prep the end line)

My brain is the storm that starts the welcome world again.

And i am failing my rituals again. fuck. i'd forgotten all but all about them. forgotten the drinks. forgot the dates. forgot ten years back muttering something to mother about her dead friend and watching the whole thing spiral into absurdist rant on the tragic while i just held my breath and waiting for everyone to just stop crying for a minute so i could sip my cigarette and coffee and wondering just what kind of world i'd be living in without my precious three.

I'm not so sure that i ever did.

I guess i just went on living, holding the sob stories for the right late night end times i needed to express just why the fuck it is i don't know how to share my sorrows so right anymore.

Not so very sagacious, i suppose.

Or is it?

I don't know that i'm necessarily one who is removed from his emotions as a manchild trying to make his best without revealing too many clues to them.

Some things are private. other moments just pass. the rest is fair game for the taking. relating. mocking on the basest plane. anecdotes. cheap jokes and poorly relayed stories about how the chihuahua became a poodle and i ended up with my dick being shook by a complete stranger in the back of some shitty bar on christmas fucking morning.

Not that i'm adopting the moniker.

I've been a jerkoff, but never so profound.

I guess i'm just looking for one more scrambling connection between who i am and the best i've ever seen in the ground.

Or hidden behind a bed.