Sharp feels good

For weeks I’ve walked around with hooks in my throat fishing for something inside my guts, making little nicks and tears in the tissue. I’ve felt a little dead and a little neutral. Heavy dry intellectual bore, balloonhead with sand, oil heart, chlorine lungs and cyanide smiles (when I could smile). I’ve shuffled awkwardly in my skin like I’m waiting in a line for something bad. I’ve invented new curses to hurl at the world, and thrown rocks and threats and cider glasses, papers, moonbeams, cat scratches, happiness and handmade pictures of Paris trying to knock the kilter little planet from the fishing wire that hangs it from the sky. I threw everything but my despair because I’m a dumb fuck.

And now I feel good. Warm, lyrical, light.
Warm like good fiction
whiskey running down into your belly
mañana maverick mashing in today

tall
and
my
sho
uld
ers
are
[]‘d
off
to
: )
the
wor
ldd

thought I’d let you know.

(yes, I took this picture.  Look at the big one!)