Letter to the NightingaleMethinks thy state in shambles fair nightingale.Did once ensue the misgivings of thy abode or the tyrannies of bliss?I vow a christen for a more effortless time exists.So worry not one squander,and cherish thy moment to moment.
The Meaning of LifeLife creates usTo be alive and exist.While we are aliveweboth create and destroytill…Life destroys us.And then perhaps it is as we never existed.Suddenly where once was meaningPurposeIs no meaning at allDo not regretWe are objects in space and timeAnd the universe will never forget us
half The stupid little story starts with a glass and an evening ray of sun cutting across the room I’m in. The sun is illuminating dust floating softly in the air. The glass is truly ordinary, it’s caught by that beautiful ray of sun, and it only has half as much liquid in it as it did moments before. A couple fans slowly rotate on the ceiling accomplishing nothing but making mechanical noises. It’s hot as hell and on top of my own miseries my mountain man body, which is a pudgy mountain man body, would very much prefer sub-zero temperatures any day of the week. I don’t even like “warm” so when things get hot I’m a zombie. I take another swig from my glass and place it hard on the counter. The glass is empty now. The bartender looks at me and asks if I want another Cranberry juice. I tell him “not so fucking loud.” He smiles this akward smile and it hangs on his face a little too long before