that picture looks different outside its glass fasade
You need not mention the waste of the last two weeks. Detox is never real productive. Except for the whole cleansing thing. I feel like someone who was forced to drink all that gagging liquid before a rectal examine. I had hopes and dreams and plans and ideas. I pissed it away with distilled water and a requirement of twelve hours of sleep (and the occasional nap). My wounds feel moist. The venom has been sucked out of me. I saw the hypocrisy from the outside the other day and thanked my alarm clock, which will never again be set at 4am, for that glorious perspective. The future is vague, but with promise. Which doesn’t mean anything really, cause I no longer believe in promise. Too many things with promise have resulted in failure/disappointment/Colorado/x-best friends/anger/bloodshed/dilated pupils (including myself) to ever buy stock in promise. But it is new. And new is better then old. And if this new becomes old then a new new will have to be found. Not the best option perhaps, but a warranty is never offered. Dog eat dog. The best man is never the groom. But always the one who gets screwed. I am getting educated though it all though. got plans to keep it going through the summer too. Kinda proud of that. Monday chapter 11 or something of year three begins. And it was a beautiful day…that turned into a hurricane….so full of love…but now it’s just pain…all my hope has become shame…anyways…I miss some already. Never got to say goodbye to a few. I wanted to head up to boston but never did. Today was good. The scattered started coming home and filling in spaces. My thought is july. Yeah, july. I had said march, but now I say july. I got through chapter three finally. Took near 6 months? DAMN. It’s good though. FASTER PUSSYCAT! A fun site will be coming soon. For the meantime check out redbubble.com/people/andrewwooster for those inclined new poetry will be posted there. I am digging Picasso recently. He reminds me of melting wax statues. Did you hear the song, ‘I shall be free’ by bob dylan? I want to ask him when and maybe even spit in his face and call him an asshole for lying to those who want to believe. Cult-like. Music is a cult. Alcohol is a cult. Love is a cult. and I am oh so susceptible. I often think the one thing that balances me was taken to work on a farm away from civilization. how do you find stability in insanity? I suppose the nobel prize awaits the answer. born into Einstein’s puzzle and I am no genius. the dew of the night makes drops on the branches and like Chinese water torture they fall. making tomorrow’s puddle to show us our reflection. but will we be too afraid to look?
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