i put all my ranting in a box. it may seem pathetic. nah, it is pathetic. to find him in the folds of a sterile night and find he is shackled to a million wishes is muck. c'est la vie. one cannot have beauty in a box. all that you can cram into the box of a time would be colors, bright colors, that wash away with useless tears. no time for tears. no space for tears. laughter, perhaps?
sodden sheets and grime-laced notebook pages and madman smiles on plastic frames...beds are never the same without the spirits that shake you.
tomorrow, i have to smile again. c'est la vie.
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