The Hidden War

i don't care: i want to cry.

2002 seems like forever ago and i can't wait to get back there. twenty-five and nothing was different. man, when i get back there, you'll see.

but it wasn't much to look at, you know. and i remember being so fucking smug when i returned to las vegas in october of that year: staying at claudia's place on boulder and lake mead, drunken conversations, debauch sex in the fall sun. it wasn't a good year, no.

maybe it's how much i hold against myself. no excuses, no one ever says you're doing too much. no one ever says a thing. and maybe a little tiny crack showed but everyone's too goddamm polite to say so.

there isn't much left going on: and i sliced my hand open on a fairly new wound (from this last weekend) and how time moves: nearly a week later. and i'm bleeding while working and i don't notice it until it drips onto the floor.

i wouldn't trade it for the world. but i hate how it feels like i need a jumpstart every fucking time i wake up.


(c)2008