Icelandic beats from an indie restaurant ten yards down the road seemed to share the same, demure indecisiveness as my ego. Zeniths of noise cascading to some sullen architecture of sound; similar to my affect. Or, in this case, my mood.

Who truly knows how to feel? And when it is appropriate? And why we must feel? And to whom we should feel these things? The attitude is as defiant as a plucky 16-year-old. "I don't know, and I don't care."

Hans Seyle might have told me that nothing is wrong; that I cannot adapt to the environment. That homeostasis is screwed up, within.


Honestly. What do I feel? And why?

Waiting time is the incubation period;
waiting is wasting. Waiting is unproductive.
Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting,
waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting...

I am the only one allowed to define myself.

Smudged intuition, perched on the
branch of "know life no-nothings";
granted, I know what you're thinking.
You think "My face is a maze, and my
clothes just hide me, scar me in
lathered tenants of blue and cream,
and seize me." I'm away on a fairy
plane, a train, zooming down oceans
and street ways, lit lamps that whisper,
banter gaily in the nightfall of Dooms Day;
a time of departure and inspiration and
incrimination. A sense of fire, youth lit
and glossing--stronger, tougher;
we are overflowing with temptations.
The meek, the wealthy, the strong guts
and hole punchers. It's a tainted euphoria,
home of the glazed locked phase. And
here I lay, staring at your threaded eyebrows
and pumps; long legs, thin, perfect. Makeup.
It's a flyaway, a spark. Here, in the present.
Now, in the moment, swiftly floating,
ballooning up to a purposeless roadshow.
I love the wind. The current. I'll figure out
where the smoke takes me; inhaling the fumes
to toxicity. I will enrage the status quo, and
to odds and ends this rage will keep on
busting up the curves and loquacious spindles.

You look so strong yet you are so light in mind and soul,
with your lofty skin.