This won’t be a pretty sight; this way, I write. I write like the shadow a bird’s wings make over the pavement. Probably a seagull or better fitting, a pigeon (that takes me 3 times to spell correctly). I hope to be cyclic, redundant, and repetitive in nature, like an alphabet series or the noodles floating around in the chicken soup, an A, an S, or a broken L.

So, I repeat myself like stars and patterns found in nursery rhymes. Yet, there is no point. It goes on. Isn’t it sarcasm time again? Isn’t that just too difficult to catch on the tip of an eyelash? It’s the humidity of words weighing you down; what does this fucker mean? Whatever does he mean?

When I am serious, I speak monotone and fast but slow, steady, and straight into your eyes. Then take a moment, look at my pauses, the emoted ellipses searching for something outlandish, stupid, outlandish (probably sexual), and you know I’m trying to make you laugh, but do not forget the difference. It never comes out right; first time, second time, third time, no striking—this isn’t fucking baseball. It’s like playing the piano; I’m guaranteed to fuck up every song. I’m no Schubert. I’m barely me. I’ll live with my crappy piano playing. I’ll tap those keys harder, softer, longer and slurred and sustained like when I’m drunk. I’ll figure out Tiersen better than any argument. I ramble like my grandmother. Perhaps we’re related. So maybe I won’t take life so seriously, I won’t write everything as a metaphor of tired inner dialogue, and just maybe I’ll use lighter language and dehumidify and desaturate my words. Press them lightly as a tender kiss on your head, our eyes closing to our end.

The passionate vibrato infused within his voice as he sings each note. Otis’ distinct moment and memory circulate and repeat so that we all can hear and create our own short-lived passions across the play of one of his melodies. A single moment that spans and spreads across the universe as our own recycled memories.

There’s an innocence to memory. Over time, we forgive and forget ourselves. The cycles of memory and moments that sustain our passions, desires, and wants. The constants that do not span across hours but are fixed to the point where the clock on the wall doesn’t fall asleep, waiting. It’s not frozen. It’s not tired. The forever of a lifespan, between the shadow and the soul. Now the day is over, that singular moment fades from memory. With the night, the desire, the craving, the want and hunger, a daydream turned real, ourselves entwined and lost in the reality of passion. Now, the morning comes. The night is over. The wind blows, stars die. We all die — the batteries run out. The cycles fade and shrink. Constants shift into invariable variables and crumbled pieces.  It’s all the same in the end; settling. Settling with Elmer’s, settling putting it all together and hoping the glue holds it all when you are tired and desperate and lost and see the most beautiful and fucked up-looking puzzle you’ve ever seen, and you realize it’s not even a 3d one and either way — either way — it’s not staying together even with the rubber cement, not even super glue. Nothing keeps something so imperfect together; this set of dreams and moments and constants, our passions and desires. Nothing can when so many pieces belong to another picture puzzle where all the pieces fit. Love is not a recycled notion but a constant cut directly from the soul.

Oceans apart, you are always all my pieces.

This world is best experienced as metaphors and abstractions and obtuse tropes. This world is best looked at with rolling hills and swaying blades of grass, green and yellow glinting from the sun; that amazing sun, that persistent ball of hydrogen and helium, yellow, red, ruthlessness, and recycled hurt and heat— flaring, soaring, blazing, distantly silent.

And with this, I ask, how can you be sure? “How can you be sure?” These words rip across my flesh, tracing across my old scars. These simple, short words thrust across arteries; the interior bleeding suffocates the lungs. Will there ever be a way to separate it all? Here is one day and another. Here is this moment for you across the moonlight. This one, this one dream, this one wish shines within a well. I want my wish back like the Goonies, but the end is the same.

It’s where even the most ridiculous events bring us to a scene of being inside an empty wishing well. Rain falls down on your face and that moment slows down. The scene transforms into following little beads of water falling down on blades of grass and bark of the old oak trees; sky weeping, soul following, falling, sinking, absorbing just a few notes of a song that started before you were born. This is hurt, this is love, this is everything and nothing where you reach out and hate, reach out and love, and you defend and offend, you find a way through the dark looking for that fucking fantastic sun!

Looking through a drop of rain, you notice something or perhaps nothing. Nothing, as you realize you have your own disappearing shadow desperately existing, being, clinging, seeking the sun. And it all fades to black as the enveloping metaphor begins its first loop, and we wake up. And I forget you never choose me no matter the infinite variations in every repeated iteration.

We have become glacial icebergs, burying ourselves deeper into our ocean to drown the possibilities as they bobble in our own prisons.

I love you. Always. Now. Then.

I just wish. I suppose it’s silly for me to say certain things to you. I’m living in a past, present, and future fantasy that I wish could be if there was enough time. But “O let not time deceive you, you cannot conquer time. In the burrows of the nightmare where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow and coughs when you would kiss.” Time stands still for me; our lips touching made of shadow and yesterday, the beautiful taste of anticipation of tomorrow when our bodies drown for the last time.

It’s something that never really seems to settle like a language, like punctuation that leaves things wondering and wandering. The twinkle of this star makes up the same crackling, the same unsettled motion of ice across time, against glass.

And now, now, this is where it all plays in slow motion…slower, slower yet, where your eyes come into this scene, where all of you is a dream, but your eyes come forward, connected to your kisses, connected to a cocktail napkin, where I sleep just to find you.

I wake up to find you and the ice cubes, no delusions, a melted mix of the haunted past. And if I could ride on such a thing, stirred up and agitated, erupt forward and upward out of the glass onto the table, melting away, melting away into you where it all leaves me as a dream to where I search for any hint of you, a smell of the fragments of voice, the strands of hair, to where I find something to remind me, this is more than a context, more than chemical reactions.

It is waking and knowing; this is where I want to be.