and i can't slow the pace of this insomnia. I'm still thinking about things. The stretch of time covered in the shapes and shades of mangoes and skating and Boston & NY in the summer time. Friday getaways. Sunrise love. The ecstasy and decay. Pink cowboy boots. Love fermenting and bubbling, being purified and spoiled all over with a foreign process. The waiting, the total abandon, the rush of senses. We start to become less familiar. Your scent is different, particularly more human, and less of that of a statue; a granite man, a sculpture born from the blind recklessness of love, mortal hands built you up so that you were beyond blame, beyond the air, beyond a human existence. O mortal coil, the mortal shell I lavish with kisses. And with that same mouth calling for redemption, getting cold damned answers, half closed eyes, full of unchanging hate. And the vast contrast between our beings only stunned me from a distance. Us. So full of forgiveness and breezes, so mad and passionate in a desert of grudges. Us. Since when did we become like this? Was it hidden deep in our personalities, the inner workings, the gears of fate that would lead us to coincide with heartache? I have a feeling, I have a feeling... a feel a feel...I feel I feel...sick.