Like the ones nights lined with ones-liners.

Je ne suis pas un météorologue!

There's tonic and chronic awareness of how to plow this field. We'll yield. Because we're going to make it right and out of sight, we're strung out to shout of the nights we knew we were flighty; fallen have the mighty--with a small amount of honesty. The electric shut off and the soldier was made to wash his face in chlorine. Boron was a goddess because with a tender few of chivalry the walls were soon made opaque. And where there's a "were" a person always follows. That's what you're here for. Everyone's 'gunna' do it and I'm 'gunna' let you, kiddo.

There will be cake. Let them eat cake. Give him cake. My dear, it's repetition. That's all it ever was. I find many instances to be proud of, and many more to never forget. There was a small in a minute and a grown in only fifteen. Today, the drain was clogged. I had to actually touch it. touche, shower. No longer are we friends.

Today was a flaw in my character. I fused my brain. I think I over-thought. Now I can over-think my over-thinking, as well. It doesn't count when he keeps reaching for his comb, and she's got eight states to lie from. It doesn't matter when they both have miles of heart at stake. How does anyone find anyone to sell their entire heart to after they continuously give pieces of it to wayward teenage woes? Girls, or boys, or whatever. 

When we'd found an enemy, the lines of draw were erased. I caught you with your pencil... and then realized you'd stolen mine. There's no crime in finding nothing better than you or me and that awkward lemonade tree. with a sense of ambiguity because no one's sure if it's left or right or southeast, really.

But we know one thing. shame. we're selling it by the bushel and those sick catholics are buying it. When you walk across that stage, you're just a coupon to their purchase, like a sunday paper clipping. I wont need to pay for the paper when I used to get it free. There's a reason our lives are labeled and you can question the man with the handle.

The vivid way you wrote goodbye was euphonious to my eyes. Though it was a cacophony of rigid tension, I recall you failed to mention that what you did was your doing. I can understand that. I always could and honey, I always will. There's no company in frill or lace when all the wrinkles sprang from the face of our lord. or yours. or shit, mine. We invented care. and then it became a monster and permeated through the air. 

By the time it sank in to your skin, you already hated it. Predestination, preordained, pre-menstrual; whatever it was, it sucked. Katnarat or Switzerland predisposed, and only slightly exposed, It was a yellow rose. I bought it. and he mumbled his signature upon the card. I attempted for you a successful Valentine's day. and now you've fucked that up. So when you're walking through Boston, or New Orleans, Wisconsin, wherever the tune will lead you, I know you'll remember. And a small amount of honesty will prompt you the way September feels before March rolls around. It is sound. Whether you're there to hear it. I'll be near it. Capture that tiny box of truth, and savor it like your gold emblem gummy worms. or your purple cross, the way you've curled on the couch I lost to a cousin. There's a curse word in every rhyme, just lurking in the lines. I'm quitting. and I will never believe in anything again. the end.