Absence. I wove it between my fingertips, holding it against closed eyes to see if a lack of light still shone red behind shut lids. The ‘absence of light’ did nothing but seep into everything it touched. It was an unavoidable plague, such as the avarice of the woman I loved; it has punctured my lungs, with a mere touch. I was tractable to her – there was absolutely nothing I could do. An absence so indefinable. A space so unfamiliarly vacant. Such goddamn vacancy cultivates this god-awful sadness. A dial tone absence one that you believe you can kiss eyes shut, only to open them to nothing. An absence that was once teeming, blooming by your windowsill and wandering down the halls with slippered feet. I wish I could cede it all. Completely disappearing from the face of the earth. An absence of familiarity, an absence of laughter to wake up to. An absence of rhymes to calm the bees, of roses hangs by their stems on clotheslines. Only then though. Only then. An absence, only noticeable when inhaled. Making a grand exodus from my life. A waves, a horde. Then the absence of the woman that I look in the mirror and see. A mother who packed her bags before I knew what to call her. Absence of love for one, for the love of another. How can someone who’s supposed to be there just obliterate themselves from your life? A promise that she’d see me sooner rather than later, next month, rather than never, one day before someday. She herself has a promise she knew she could never keep. An honesty of lies gritted through both of our soft smiles. Vigorously punching walls, breaking plates, wasting my time. Inhabitant of my soul, destroyer of the worlds. Thirty goodnight kisses a year fall short of what we would take from each other if only we could. Awfully subordinate, always acting like the head of state. She is the head of state. An absence of knowing. Of falling to find the words to bequeath to me her feelings, when she knows she’d never see me again. Not a heathen of me, id kindly ask you to leave, because with your foot stomping my throat it’s goddamn impossible to breathe. I try to let her know, you know? I’d love to partake in a discourse about how I’ve felt, what, I’ve done, where I’m going, but she doesn’t listen, It’s quite hurtful sometimes. It makes me want to rip my limbs apart and goodness anger is so fascinating. She tells me she’s there but I do not see her there. I do not see her at all. She swallows back her words and vacillates her statements that were to me, beliefs. You think that you are an iconoclastic but you are not. You just move, or replace what you cannot have. If you fail at something you retreat into something else, under the oppression that beginning and not finishing what you start, afraid of failure – isn’t failure. It is. It is failure itself. Truly I’ve only been thinking about drinking this while bottle and driving a hundred miles an hour, so subtle, all around your neighborhood, and straight through your front door. I hope you’re happy to, see me. Shoot down my garrison, it’d be best because we are all killers – we are all sinners. Have I yet to act decorously writing this paper? Have I yet to represent myself? Everything being contemporary or modern, everyone forgets how to be all right without all of their gadgets it’s harder to enjoy life and it’s harder to take a day off when you truly need because of such things.
Something’s,

No matter how many times said, or how many times done, you’ll never understand them. You’re nicotine and you’re booze and your women are temporary although they are many more to come. Tenaciously devouring every inspiration, every book, every god-awful word I have read and are yet to read, I learn;
Pain is inevitable. There are two kinds of pain, the useless kind, and the kind that makes you shiver and break. Pain is suffering and suffering is those deep blue sea eyes so leave me the hell alone. I capitulate, it’s all over. I’ve surrendered my will to the estates in your heart. Would such a breach of faith be forgiven? You’ve squandered me in order to keep what was left of you. My god, I am the only thing that is left of you.

They want their anthrax back. THEY WANT THEIR ANTHRAX BACK!! I, like them, am a stalwart warrior. Fight until we die and then we fight in our after-life, if any.

All of a sudden the clock hits midnight-
September 24th, 1973 – a respite of modern times. Respite of ignorance – respite of all the days that aren’t September 24th
Surely, I am not the only remnant.

You would stand in the room so still sometimes, as if the greatest betrayal to yourself would be to reveal one more inch of your character.