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There are certain reprocussions with waking up at 4 am, and deciding to pry yourself from under such comfort and warmth. With brute force and fed up with the sleepless hours, my right foot uneasily and unsteadily touched down on the floorfrom the high rise of a dormitory bunk. I open my door, and the drafty air of my living room causes my skin to bump up, my arms folded tightly around my chest. I walk to the bathroom, every step on the dirty wooden floor makes the pads of my feet colder and colder. The disgustingly purple tile of the restroom provides even less warmth. I flick the switch and squint my eyes, I have a goal, and I move the curtain out of the way of it. The chrome starts crying in jets, water hitting plastic and the drain starts gurgling slightly. It was then, right then, I realized I had not heard one human voice since my awakening. The calmness was only destroyed by one word, lonesome. It was a humidity, a unescapable stickiness in the air, not yet unfamiliar but known all too well. I brought my phone into the bathroom, placed it on the towal rack at full volume, it being the only thing that would make me leave this fountain of warm tears. Thats the best part about the shower, your own tears blend with that of the chrome phallus sticking from the wall. It cries much harder than I do.
The bathroom is exited, fully dressed and not feeling excellent. Hunger starts to set in, that burning nagging pain in the pit of your stomach. On impulse I grab my jacket and shoes, never really thought about it in weather like this. I look around to see if I have missed something. There it was, the camera and the cigarette. On my desk, a single solitary cigarette, its filter barely touching the grey exoskeletan of a camera. I grab them both.
I go outside, and pull a lighter from my jeans' pocket, brought to the cigarette levyed in my lips. The cold nips at my fingers, only half covered by my sweatshirt. The coal starts burning, cracking slightly and with that my feet start the walking. The cyclical motion of bringing my hand from my side to my mouth begins, never to end until the end of the flame.



"How are you this morning sweetheart." I say outloud.

I stop in my tracks at the first sound of a human voice, the voice was my own. Distinct and unquestionable, I was the only one around. Walking step by step down the street, the letters of the word lonesome hitting my in the nose. Longing and such intense feelings, the civil war of my own body raging further then ever imagined. Im being driven to insomnia and madness, images and obsession, slides of memories blinking slightly as the projecter slows. Is there a magic pill to take? Button to push?

Would it be any different if I were in a crowd? A movie theatre we never visited or a restaraunt we never dined? Shall the letters smack my nose unforgivingly no matter where I reside. Selfless longing shall drive me mad, insanity would be so great when its over gold. A arrow hit me! It was a man with a harp. I will wait. I will wait.

Inspire and create, vice versa.

The sun is coming up, everything is washed in a thin orange haze. All twsited metal reaching upwards. You took my hand, and I fell into it, like a day dream or a fever.



I have always been told I have nice penmanship.

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