why I got it cut
The wind blows hard through my window, as I drive down a variation of the same roads I often travel. I lean against the door in my car, and almost hope as if it will fall out, and set me free from the prison of conventionality. And so he says no drug can cure the true illness... That is suffering. I stare at my hand for a second before I realize traffic is coming to a stop. The brakes work well this time, and the random series of gears that compel the truck to my bidding work their magic. It's starts up again and I look back down at my hand. Scarred and rough from living. I wonder about all the things possible through that hand... Through this hand, and even all the hands to touch that hand. I start to daze off and half way close my eyes against the wind blowing my hair in the short revolutions it may fall from being a length it now is since it's been cut... And I remember why I got it cut.