Empty roads pavement stretches, red and green straight cold, alone and warm home. I could drive the streets, at night, forever I could drive them, alone forever. I am so comfortable with my aloneness and with things that are alone like boulevards in the nowhere hours with lonely reds at home and a few passing … Continue reading Indulgence

Writing Through

It's not pleasant, where I start. In fact I don't want to start because of the stench and the rot and the sameness of words left to die, mirrors everywhere and in them, my heart. I know everything there is to know about this room there are no more secrets there hasn't been for some … Continue reading Writing Through