We are the neon sewer dwellers. Waiting for my turn to be thrown into the pot. Boiling over, Brunswick stew burning the lot. Thrown in, screaming meat. Thrown in, lima beans. Green, mean, unraveling seams. Thrown in, wild flower pot belly sour. Red stew stirred up, thickened, corner cowered. Sit among the reeds, watch it all boil over, wait.

Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. The God of Small Things. Friday, April 3, 2015. Well, not quite t.

Who knows, but the whole ordeal was kinda funny. But I suppose they are also part of me. Sporadic as usual here, but I needed to get some things written down. But then went through a crazy move and super high stress time, went from 218 up to 234.

Escape, to such sweet oblivion- we come with open eyes. Thursday, December 16, 2010. I must always remember him. Deep within the tumult of my senses, I must always remember that the storm is not unyielding. His eyes are my twin Suns, blotting out the anti-smiles. Whenever I am too blinded, as everyone can be, by my own insecurities, I must remember that it is him who makes me feel secure. I must remember that I am always willing. I must remember that the past is of no importance, e.