summer ends.
i wake up in a pile of repugnant, defeated mess with razor wire abrasions on my leg. an inspiring two weeks twenty minutes gone towards four hours/four days/four weeks/four monthes/forever away from the eternity I wish I could spend reliving the 00:00:32 reassurance of 5:24am 8/26/05 which deemed all my shortcomings and paranoias moot and my true self restored. i go to the bathroom, blow my nose and say to myself "what the fuck, was I snorting tooth paste last night?." then i see the mucus, and speed, and blood. and i laugh. i laugh way too hard for someone laughing alone. the heartiness of my laugh hocks up some more Trident as i stand there looking into the mirror, glib and lazy eyed, realizing that waking up feeling like shit has replaced the uneasiness of waking up to an empty bed. a strange and unhealthy comfort. a tingle runs through my spine and a smile usurps my morning daze. my mid-life crisis is over. gala eluard is is twenty three years dead and 207.19 miles away, but she damned if she didn't inspire the next 20 years and 48 days of unrest onto the backburner, if only for one moment of divine clarity. all i have now is her book and my smile. that book is damned heavy.