fingerlocked.

well, i am pretty sure everything is going to turn out fine from here. when she gets back from that 5hr drive, it will have changed her, she will be better. she will have a softer voice. i miss talking to her on the weekends, hiding under hotel sheets, as if i was still 15, still in my bedroom with the purple zebra curtains. it makes me happy. we are still young, we are just getting older, and by older, i mean , weaker.
when we learn to forget, we learn how to stop learning. and i know that doesnt make sense, but once youre here, you'll hear that lesson in my voice, the lesson that quivers, shakes and holds, right in the air, sticking out like an adams apple.
and when you reach the back alley, hopping over ripped tires and old bins, you tell me you have not lost hope. but you smell like art and blood again, where have your hands been? you say its all blurry right now, that things will be clearer in the morning. but the things that happen in the forest don't appear. they stay beneath the blur, in dreamy colourations, making wierd shaped memories real again when you come to sit&visit, and talk with them. the little things in the forest.
so stop listening to me, i have nothing interesting to say.
this and that, nothing is ever going to change.
i have met the line, beat the time,
i have been born and right now i have died.