And I scraweled messily on this sheet of paper to tell you of what happened today, 'cause our lives are so seemingly important in our world. Our lives are the only things that matter.

What'd he say?, you asked, and I scribbled a response in a red pen. Written in an aritficial blood. Red just makes it all the more real.

Red makes it tangible.

He didn't say much of anything. Don't worry, I'll tell you about it later today, I rushed away. My hand moving faster than my mouth ever could, and I wondered if that was even possible.

I walked faster toward you, and I wadded up the note. I crumbled it in a fist. The words were pressed against my palms; hot flesh on this cold paper, these cold sentences and letters and ink stains.

I handed you the note, this crumpled mass of artificial blood scrawls that somehow form some kind of legible writing. With our he says, she says emptiness immortalized in pen, in ink.

And I'd only stop this cycle of nonsense when the ink stops coursing through my artificial veins.

Capping the pen and putting it in my pocket, I walk on.

Change jangling in an empty pocket. Clanging against one another; quarters and dimes and nickles and pennies, keys and bubble gum wrappers, and a capped, red pen.

It doesn't seem so empty to me.

It doesn't seem so insignificant to me.

It's what I live for.

Cap me off like you would your ball-points when they're of no use to you any longer. When they've run dry. Flip me shut like you would a notepad when you're done whoring it's pages around. When you're done reading up and down and around it's lines. End this. End the artificial and superficial and pseudo-tangible ramblings that make absolutely no sense at all. But we can't...

The cycle never stops, and that's the way it ends.

The Weather Underground - 2008-11-12
- - 2008-05-06
She knows I can read. - 2008-05-06
William Jacobson - 2008-05-02
Lost Boys - 2008-04-30