One of those nights
Reading things I shouldn't; the only comfort in doing this is knowing that I wasn't crazy, I wasn't imagining anything. This happened, but it wasn't just me. It wasn't fabricated or exaggerated. That's good to know, every once in a while.
It's also the grenade in my pocket that I want so badly to fling; to duck at the explosion, to shelter myself from the inevitable fallout. What's a little more, really? This year, I've been fucking buried underneath it.
And I listen to Radiohead and remember walking through a windy autumn evening, hearing this song on my headphones, the bells chiming just as the wind kicked up, and it's so hard to believe that this was a year ago.
My garden is dying, dead, a wreck of weeds and trash and miserable memories. I haven't been down there in...probably weeks, if not months.
I just can't.
It's also the grenade in my pocket that I want so badly to fling; to duck at the explosion, to shelter myself from the inevitable fallout. What's a little more, really? This year, I've been fucking buried underneath it.
And I listen to Radiohead and remember walking through a windy autumn evening, hearing this song on my headphones, the bells chiming just as the wind kicked up, and it's so hard to believe that this was a year ago.
My garden is dying, dead, a wreck of weeds and trash and miserable memories. I haven't been down there in...probably weeks, if not months.
I just can't.