It was only two weeks. But it easily could have been two months, as easy, two years. From the day of that black eruption which shattered my psyche into so many minuscule morsels, each swallowed whole and quickly sinking in my own version of despair(and isn't the despair we call our own the bleakest?), it seemed I had hopped onto some maniacal down escalator, gears all crazy and out of whack, spinning this automatic staircase to oblivion at a hellish rate, faster than a breath or a sudden death.
I'll get to those weeks in a moment, but for now I must tell you of the time after, for it seems those days found me deepest in the fugue. I see them now in a pale version of clarity, as dreams at waking, having not completely faded. And, more unsettling, it seems I never really lived those days as much as dreamed them through some overloaded third-eye, double-visioned and blurred in a trembling state of stinking withdraw from booze and pills and controlled living; I was once again eye to eye with the reality that broke me and my fear left me pale and blubbering.
Those days of half-hallucinations and sweating, crazed dreams, I was a trembling wreck who saw through the eyes of a sheepish four-year-old, afraid of any shadow or sound around the corner, shit, in the next room! The daily(wake, shave, shower, work, eat, sleep) ritual left me with a weariness of mind and body I had never known, and let it be said, never care to know again. Brooding and sullen, smiles rarely crossed my face and laughter never escaped my lips. Time passed in painful slow-motion, time, no longer counted in divisions of day and night, rather a furious smudge of dark and light to which I had become a shadowy spectator, events drawing out before me like playhouse scenes of some comic-drama, and I swear, it was all one gigantic cartoon to my eyes.
I was a wretched leftover, dishonored and far beyond humbled, humbled to the point of subtle paranoia, wondering who was watching, listening, looking, who knew my secret and would soon hop on the soap box like some antiquated town crier and preach my death of spirit to the whole world! I had learned so little in my time of healing, learned so little about the human condition and all its trappings. I was a prisoner to myself and nothing could break the chains with which I had bound myself. Tiptoing through anything had never been a "me" thing, now it seemed all that I knew. I had become timid and broken, a shell that had crawled from a shell that had left a dying husk behind.
Once, I would walk the beach at sunset, and there I would pontificate and speculate, there I would calm my soul and pull myself together, there I would disconnect from the world and become ethereal, if only for a split second. Now I was searching all nature for beauty and serenity and found nothing. Green grass, so alive and worthwhile to lay in, roll in, play in, smell and breath in had become grey. Blue sky mornings full of the dawn's hope and cloudless perfection escaped me and were replaced with overcast black shrouds that ate my hope and swallowed my stability in massive gulps. Ahh! Beauty seeing a man and woman holding hands, walking the street and whispering into one another's ear, whispering proverbial sweet nothings to be sure, this I perceived in future tense, he buried in his secretary(or some other such subordinate), heavy breath and putrid sweat, a mass of mingling limbs, fetid sex stench and slovenly smiles, twisting and probing throughout this blasphemed coupling. She I witnessed a slave to Tapaan, four ugly, flaming eyes and as many pots a boil. She encased in a coffin of steam and grease filth, foul and clogging her once open pores. She lined and worrying because she knows she is a slave but calls it love and refuses to admit the lilac scent blasting off her husband the moment he enters the home, and embracing the con man's smile that unfolds as he kisses her cheek and the lilac wreak convulses her stomach and he tells her in his used-car- salesman voice that she's his peachy pie and he lovey wuvs her. Bless whatever powers may be, for I felt most comfortable watching children at play, swinging and singing, hopscotch and double-dutch. Sticky handed and snot nosed children climbing, laughing, crying, yelling to beat hell, whining, daring and young! Thank what there is that this still brought me joy, for, if such innocence in my mind be tarnished, I could have no longer lived.
And imagine all this, as quickly and as harshly as I had lived it, equally as quickly over and done with. It was, suppose we call it epiphany, but on a simpler level, ( I happen to believe all drugs had finally run their course) and I was seeing clearly, somewhat. I realized in a thunder clap lightning flash style that life will continue and the world keep turning because I'm just not that damn important! People had been hurting and healing for centuries, nay, millenniums, before I finally cracked and puked my bleating heart and aching testes all over some psychopath's (sorry) psychologist's couch and came crawling and drooling into the sterile white world of we'll cure you in a week and be damned if we don't. And why should I be any different? My mistake was the process in which I dealt with my aching testes, and doesn't this bring us to the meat of this whole thing?
Once you lose it, it's gone and not a single word can bring it back, not a million thoughts or reasonable excuses can justify the fact that it's missing. And this is me as I wandered empty rooms in an empty house, praying empty prayers to empty gods. Had I lost it between the sofa cushions? So soft and greedy, it seems a lifetime can be lost there between the cracks, the domestic black hole of loose change and chewing gum wrappers. No, not between the cushions, perhaps beneath the sofa itself, on my hands and knees, frantic and searching. No, not there either. Once again I lap the house and it's become a fun house and the mirrors distort me(or perhaps it's the tears) and I can't bear to look in the mirrors, but every room it seems has mirrors and I can't escape the terrible apparition appearing in the polished glass, void of streaks and perfect, reflectively perfect. What a sight I am! Swollen face and eyes wearing purple rings, bloodshot eyes, the eyes of disbelief. Gotta find it and that's the truth, the only truth I know anymore. Maybe a shower. Yes, a shower could soothe me and cleanse me and I could get all spiffied up and I'll feel so much better. Yes. It's dark in the shower and I can hide there for a time. Yes, dark and wet, comforting, like a mothers' womb and the steaming water the hands that caress me, the arms that hold me close, the wet lips that kiss away my tears. And, as in the womb, I am prone and fetal and don't really want to know what's at the end of the tunnel, the light is ominous and without a doubt uninviting.
My bedroom is too much. Too much light, too much dark, too many ghosts and skeletons all rolling around and dancing in the shadowed corners. Can't breath and can't feel my legs, can't move my legs to retreat from this cave that was once my sanctuary and safe house. Can't feel my heart beat and don't really care, maybe all would be simpler if I just dropped dead on the spot from a massive coronary. What good is my heart anyway? Close inspection, x-rays and cat scans show it resembles the ragged and desperate remains of some poor woodland creature who lost its race with the Volkswagen. I'm positive it's barren and shriveled, pitch black and shrunken as a nicotined lung. Ah, desolate heart, why beats you so when it seems no longer necessary? Why beats you so when I've begged you to stop a thousand times, and why beats you so only to defy me? Are you not MY heart? A shame we humans are not clockwork beings so I could pull my springs and jam my gears and wind down to a mannequin's pose.
Gotta go in there. Can't go in there. It's dark and I'm afraid. I've found what I've lost in here, and I'm afraid. There it is on the bed. There it is on my chair. There, there, there, no, there! AH! Damn this mind I own! Will it not stop seeing what's no longer near? The scent of Eternity still lingers here and the familiar, gossamer shape still lingers here and likewise lingering a million words, ten million whispers and a billion promises spoken and broken. I'm spinning now and I can't stop. The air is thinning and it won't stop. My lungs are white hot fire and for some reason I see nothing but back. Back a day, back a week, back a year. Back; and from here I can't escape.
This film is the same and I've seen it too many times, lived it twice too many times and some sadistic theater operator has left the projector on with miles of the same film fed into it over and over, an endless stream of sickeningly familiar scenes, of scenes that are now a part of me, scenes I can never leave on the cutting room floor. I'm weak, I'm shaking, I'm crying. I need a job. I need a drink.
Dialing up my man. One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingy and he picks up. "Hey, man" I say, and we continue from there. Let's go buy a case, take that case a way up that hill. Sit in this end- summer's hazy heat, sticky dull wet heat. Let's toss back a couple on that hill, leaning against the car, stereo rolling out tunes in waves we seem to ignore, rewinding the tape, playing that song again because it's oh so true. Listen to that crazy crooner! He knows life and, hey man, grab me another. Let's lean against the car, on this hill, diggin some sounds, drinking some beer and just figure this whole deal out. Who cares I have no money and no job, who needs money and who needs a job and, by the way, who needs life besides? Doesn't matter. We two know-nothing philosophers, drunk on a hill, arguing about who's the better band, the better guitarist, the better writer. Who has bigger tits and sweeter ass and I don't care bout that, for I've decided I'm past all such needs and shall never love again. Even arguing this last point and My Man says who needs her anyway, and I agree, and John Fogerty sees that bad moon risin' and I see the sun setting over my shoulder and know just what John's singing about, I know all about that bad moon and I chuck another empty over the edge and we listen. Silence... silence... silence... CRASH!! I cringe, for I just heard that sound yesterday, that shatter tinkle crash bump smash and for the moment I relive it again, but My Man's screaming and singing and I join in and who knows? Maybe it does get better after all? But then again, it probably doesn't, oh well, get me another, wouldya?
Drunk and can't drive so I give the keys to My Man, who's just as drunk as me, but for some reason this makes sense. Let's drive and go nowhere(which is everywhere in this town of a thousand lost dreams) and maybe find a bar because we need another six-pack. Let's just drive out of here and empty our bank accounts and just keep going, gotta go west, gotta go west and chase the setting sun, race the rising moon and let's not stop till we're there. Shit, isn't my car. Let's go to the end of town and see who's around.
Nobody here past dark, this place is a ghost town in the night. Perfect families happily asleep, old fashioned families wishing Lawrence Welk still conducted his orchestra amidst a platoon of happy little bubbles, wishing The Shadow and The Lone Ranger still saved the simple folk from crime and corruption on radio waves hurtling a million miles a second through the dead air. But nothing so innocent tonight. A demon stalks their streets and sees their houses and doesn't really give a damn about them, they never gave a damn about him and he sticks his head out the window and howls fit to wake the dead. Bugs in his face, his eyes, his teeth, swallowing bugs and grinning that idiot's grin, that idiot's demonic, possessed grin and knowing nothing and caring even less.
Hey! There's some people! Let's stop to shoot the breeze and see what's the haps tonight(knowing the answer is universally nothing). Funny how people seem to tighten up when I'm near, funnier still, seems they tighten up even more now. Think they know something I'm not supposed to know they know, fuck it, this is night is mine. Sitting on the car, about seven kids, all trash and wanting nothing more. We talk and they laugh and kick nervous glances toward me and for the first time in my life, I realize these people fear me. Funny, they can't see the fear on my own face. Maybe the alcohol fire hides it an I'm wearing some spirit mask that their eyes can't see through. No matter, this night is mine and I'll pass it as I please, thank you.
Their babble.. You hear Jack Spratt got a new car? No, really? What he get? Blah blah blah blah... I'm tuned out and focused in on the house in the square. I know it too well, know it's creaks and groans(made a few there myself), know its rooms and closets, know the people in various states of sleeping and waking who inhabit it at this moment. All I don't know is who's car is that parked out front? Got a good idea, but really don't want to know the truth. I'm dizzy and the sky is all spinning and I"m all grinning and everybody's talking and taking the night for granted. I'm worshiping the stars, the moon and the heated air and loving my buzz and the visions it provokes. Got my eye on one of the young, trashy girls leaning on my(not my) car and I know better, but dirty thoughts can't put me in jail, can they? Here, who knows? One of these backwoods hillbillies probably put the mojo on me and can read my mind, sorry bout their luck, but I stop thinking about that little white trash girl just to be safe. Let's go play some ball, man. Good night for some ball. They got lights up the road. Lights, nights, beer and basketball, let's go!
This road is too long, crooked and winding like an old woman's osteoporosis plagued back. My Man's still driving and I can relax and dig it. Ball between my feet, beer between my balls, and we're talking nonsense between the singing and got the windows down and diggin the wind and diggin the night and bitching forever about the country stench. Coming into town now(another town, small and dying) and it's a feast of lights. So many lights and too many lights and, Jesus, how'd I forget? Summer ritual in rural Pennsylvania, carnival ritual. Everyone gathers to watch country music bands and clogging contests, to meet and talk with all the same narrow-minded people they've met and talked with all their narrow-minded lives. Fucking carnival summer. All the kicks for all the kids from all the towns for miles around. They wait on these weeks like hyenas waiting on a lion's leftovers and migrate in vast hordes from one town's carnival to the next. It completely blows my senses and I will never understand the attraction, though I'm sure it's somehow connected to unbelievable boredom.
The courts are full tonight, well, somewhat full. Couple of black cats(actually, the only two in the whole county) and their entourage. Kids in too big clothes trying desperately to emulate the Brothers' walk, talk, style, mystique. I don't understand and just say hey and move on down to the other end. One of the Brothers(and, allow me to clarify, they are really brothers), the older one, he comes down to see what's the haps and we're cool with each other because we both understand the almighty "way that it is" around here. He knows I'm drunk and I know he's smoked so we set up a game of whore(same idea as horse) and go to it. I'm laughing at the Brothers' disciples, all their "we be this" and "I is" that and I can't stop laughing and there's two girls sitting out of bounds, trying to look as ghetto as a coupla two dollar crack whores. Christ, I'm going mad and all these mindless roaches just tickle me in the right spot and I can't stop giggling and for some reason the damn ball won't go any further than two feet from my hands and I can't make a single shot. Finally, I'm a whore and, didn't I know this already? A whore just whoring through life, a whore for beautiful eyes and soft smiles, a whore for striking words and melodious voice. A whore for books and movies but never adds or trends. A whore to time and money and a whore for long, wavy locks I could dive into and get lost. Just a shameless, faceless whore, living a whore's life, beaten and abused daily by that pimp called Life and what of it? Nothing's gonna change so I'll die as I've lived, a whore is as a whore does.
Running from life a million miles an hour and going nowhere adrift upon seas of despair and finding no port perhaps I've really lost all rationality this time and perhaps this isn't really happening maybe if I pinch myself I'll wake up to a beautiful day and greet the dawn with a toothful smile and a hearty how do and I pinch and nothing and I pinch harder and nothing and all is still grey and drear and I knew this of course and of course I knew all of this and of course none of this means anything and of course this is all fog and with no sun the fog remains and with no sun the fog is forever and with no sun the fog is god funny how god is dog in reverse.
Out of time, out of beer. Gotta go home, my head keeps telling me an My Man done run off with one of those ghetto girls so I have to search him out. Finding him down on the jungle gym trying with relative ease to separate girl from panties and I peek a little teet and holler and she's all red and embarrassed and I just smile a hungry little smile and won't look away. I'm scaring hell out of her and it feels good.
Let's go man, and he's cool with it and we're off, leaving behind the pathetic carnival of
desperately stuck souls(stuck to their tiny thoughts of tiny lives in tiny houses), town, clowns, lights and the pathetic carnival Ferris wheel is the last thing to fade. Watching this over my shoulder I understand that wheel's mind(grinding gears and hot grease) and we bond, baby, me and that Ferris wheel. I am a Ferris wheel revolving in stupid sideways circles, spinning and going nowhere and nowhere to go besides. Just spinning in a rut twenty-three years deep and watching future fade and past fade and present too much to deal with and spinning eternally, generations passing me by like a cold wind and the last thing to go in this grand existence(carnival of life!) is the big fucking Ferris wheel. The Ferris wheel is immortal and will live forever.
Dropping My Man off and now I gotta drive and, dammit, I can't see because the road has split in two and thank dog I'm not too far from home and I laugh and say fuck it and I'm off. My Man left me a couple of beers beneath the seat and they roll and rattle and I just can't wait to get home and suck them down. Just what I need, another drink to help me think, and I smile because what poetry, that! Pulling in and parking(or a facsimile thereof) and the house is dead and I wonder if maybe everyone inside is the same. Dead to this wondrous night and drunken me stumbling along my drive(my life?) and muttering platitudes to the moon and stars. Hello moon, yellow shining moon(though I know you don't shine of your own accord, so alike are we in that respect). And, hello stars, how dead are you this fine evening, morning, whatever? Perhaps the stars are great and forgotten astral artists, not recognized in their lifetimes but blazing and furious in their death. Starlight, dead light here's the wish I beg tonight. Bowed head and sobbing through pain and surrounded by such true beauty breaks my heart and I ache to become ethereal and wander this beauty and see what those poor, dead stars see, what that old reflecting moon sees, to be the turning leaves and the ancient trees and the wise old mountains and the secret sea and the angry desert and the gentle plains, plateaus, valleys, streams, churning rivers, steel grey sky, and soft blue space. Alas, I am earthbound and gravity prone and heavier than I have ever felt. Ahh, what a dream, no?
Funny how your home smiles in the light and sneers in the dark. I hate coming home after dark because I'm sue it's sneering at me, sneering and knowing some sick secret, my secrets, and the bastard knows I'm polluted and will creak at just the right moment, with just enough volume to wake my people and present me in all my drunken splendor beneath their questioning eyes and force me to play the question game and I know I'll lose tonight.
Fuck you, house, I'm warning you, make no sounds as I invade your silent sanctity. Rotten old house, believe me, I'm not above anything tonight and I just want to come in, sit down, finish my binge and lapse into unconsciousness. We understand each other, house of termite infested wood? I know where the fireplace is and how to work it, stoking it to a roaring blaze without closing the door. What a shame for a spark to find it's freedom tonight and feast upon your person, O Sneering Log House, and that's (urp) a threat. That old house nods, good, here I come.
I hate this place. More than I've ever hated anything in this life, I hate this place. My digs are the whole downstairs, complete with living room, bathroom, bedroom and shared laundry facilities. Of course, the old wood stove is down here too, ant it's ancient breath breathes the stench of a zillion consumed logs, horribly murdered logs, poor helpless victims of logicide, their charred wreak permeates air as dead as their ashes. I wince at the smell and light an incense(horrible mistake) and it's smoky perfume only mixes with dead log stench and thickens the are some more and clogs my eyes with tears and my nose with sneezes and oh well, leave it alone.
What's on the tube at 2 am? That wonderful sage of my generation, television, ceaselessly pandering its wares in countless living rooms, bedrooms, hotel rooms, bars all around the world. And at this hour! Lord a mercy! What wonderful programming for insomniacs and drunks and junkies! Infomercials and Hollywood psychics abounding so it seems each channel is just part of one huge show, one huge butt fuck of a show causing me to giggle like a maniac at the world's naivety. For $9.95 a minute, YOU can know the secrets of your future and isn't it amazing how no future ever includes despair or depression? Never any "true case report" of a gentleman from Idaho who called in only to find out his wife was schtuping the mailman and his son was a homosexual. Never the woman whose husband was ripping off his company and using the proceeds to support his secret habit of wearing women's lingerie. Are we all that desperate for good in this life that we can only find it in lies? Can't we simply see the world's truth in all it's glorious blue-sky dawns and pink-sky dusks, alive so purely and swimming naked and innocent in this sea of life and it's exotic diversities? Absolutely not! Too simple and simply too plain, that. People need voodoo and hoaxes and false hope to bolster their dreams and support their fantasies.
Flipping channels forever and forever finding nothing, I finally settle on some old black and white rerun, The Fugitive, methinks. Here is Richard Kimball on the lam, always running, always searching, always running. Tuning it all out, I decide to tune in another beer. Getting tired, need to sleep, don't want to think, only want to drink and die.
Hot tears streaming cheeks and cold can filling hand,
Cowardly man, cowardly man, enter my bosom.
Come hither and spin me a yarn of your despair.
Tell me of she of the golden hair, thou fair princess.
Why no longer her breath inside my square?
No longer her scent sweetening my air?
Cowardly man, O cowardly man,
Enter my bosom, if you dare.
OH! God damns me and I in turn damn him! Foul demon, I hear you taunting from behind that door as I snore and toss and sweat! Leave me now! Leave me to the shit and filth of my self- destruction! Can't you see how I shake and shiver? Your appetite is insatiable and I have no more to fill your disgusting gullet with! There is nothing left of me, are you blind? Or do you choose not to see the emptiness behind my eyes, hiding in the aftermath of my war torn soul? I am broken and without compassion or pride! I am like leaves in autumn, brown and dry and falling to rot. Leave me to my self-destruction and leave me to my pain. Please, leave me to me.
Born again to light. Waking from sleep 10, 000 fathoms deep, dungeon sleep and restless sleep. Sweat sheets cover me chilling. Skin clammy and voice screaming, ears not aware of the sound. Watching me from without and fear gripping, have I died in my tortured rest? Seeing me shaking, bare chested and glowing in streaks of scorching morning sun and I'm sucked back in. The scream is real and piercing, sweat and shivering the same. Arms around me my own, cradling myself for warmth I'm frozen to the marrow, teeth a chatter and tv still uselessly muttering in low decibels. Still alive, what a shame. Gotta move but I'm stricken immobile. Paralysis of the soul set in through the night and swallowed me whole(though I know this is me shamming me) and I'm sure I'll never leave this ratty, wretched sofa again.
It's the dead log smell that softens my stiff limbs and sitting up my head throbs and my heart aches and joints creak as if I have aged 100 years sleeping. Too much light for sleep-filled eyes and struggling I shut the blinds and focus on some inane talk show. Amazing what people will do for their fifteen minutes! Here a step-mother sexes her step-son and the pair plot to run away together to some false paradisiacal island of the mind. Father is broken man and son love blind sees not how he's destroyed father, only knows that older pussy is warm and wet and grips him like a familiar glove and that body presses against him wriggling in the night and he is uncaring. Disgusting and intriguing, intriguing enough that I sit dumb struck and ever the idiot glued to a million points of light flashing images I never really see as much as remember, here for half a heartbeat and gone as fast, enthralling beams are ionic magnets attaching to my eyes and holding tight. Finally the show's done and nothing resolved but I'm starving and need to eat.
No appetite to speak of, amazing how trauma and shock can effect such simple functions. However, I still feel empty and bleak in my gut and in horrid disbelief fry potatoes I'll never eat and scramble eggs destined for the dogs. Maybe it's the act of life-as-it-always-has-been that I need so desperately, the forever ritual of waking and living and sleeping all over again. But the fact that I'm living a bum's existence for the time leaves me anxious for anything to happen and sick to stomach and sick to mind and sick, sick, sick. Need something, anything. Lift some weights for frustration's sake. Anything to replace this horrible emptiness. Got a big punching bag and maybe that's the key. Redirect my anger and pain unto canvas and packed whatever. A shame I'm without energy and these thoughts go no farther than that. I'd rather sulk and sit about and pine and whither in my own shitty sorrows. Fuck it.
Shower calls and I follow and the darkness engulfs me and visions engulf and I'm sure she's outside on my sofa. She's come to tell me she loves me and I believe this inside and I believe she's actually there, and upon sofa making love in after-shower steam and soaking wet bodies and forgotten all that has passed and once again two are one. Coupling as angels do and moans are golden melodies and bodies pressed together captivating mosaics of flesh and blood, hair and bone. Filthy sleep-sweat, drunk-sweat washed away and new and clean as the day and bright and hopeful and future's fruits so plump and edible and reaching, falling from shower into steamy old bathroom, mildew filled bathroom and tears reign.
Empty sofa and I'm a sorrowful sight. Empty house and empty heart and perhaps not so sorrowful am I. Looking about to be sure, was it only an illusion or is she now hidden somewhere in this shack and playing children's games with my mind? Of course not here for real, only here to taunt in shimmering effigy. Phone ringing and me not hearing it, so intent on searching am I. Finally that sound registers and answering I'm amazed and brought to my knees.
Sobs wracking frail body, she's so sorry and I believe. She's broken and hurting and I believe. She's wanting me and not wanting me and breaking apart into invisible shards of a person and I believe. Shame on me and I believe only the words spoken from those strawberry lips that once smiled upon me as rays of celestial sun shine upon dying greenery, reviving and renewing.
Pathetic me, I've become a shadow of myself and, brought to knees and in current state a begging shadow of myself and the scene has become confession, I vestal father and she confessor of sins abominating. Rather dull knife tear my flesh and flay me in small bits than listen to this sad confession, but I remain riveted and stricken by words destructive. And the story is following lines... Mayhap you no longer loved me and mayhap you did but I was no longer thinking thoughts of pure love and vigorous emotion, but thoughts of betrayal, for you were not you and I feared I had lost all that was you. And I in regret can now tell you of these things, you see, for all has ended and now the final stake in your black heart. He was consoling and warm and found beauty within me(beauty that once you lavished in) and soft words led to soft kisses and soft kisses to softer caresses until all was a melee of rushing need and needy lust. And he embraced me and lavished me with such beautiful words and even more lovely, the feel of a caring body on top of mine, a caring body inside of mine and within minutes the deed was done and I so much in love with you and all that you are had betrayed you and forgotten your face and the look of shame and pain learning of this would reflect in your eyes. And now you see why I can no longer love you, it's not for me, no, but for you. I am no longer deserving of a heart such as yours and no longer in need of such a heart.
Thus she spoke to me and thusly I replied. Tell me now, dear heart, was this simple wandering from the path of my love because of my foul actions, or have you now and forever fallen out of love with me and all that is me? Or have I become so deviant in my search for all things real and necessary that I've neglected you and led you astray against your own will, led you into arms not mine? Have I neglected to place you above all else meaningful in my heart and forsaken all that you've given to me in terms of passion and romance and used you as I may use a simple whore? Please, I beg of you, advise me of my erring ways so that I may fix such problems accordingly and hence win you back to my heart and correct all imperfections of my lost and wandering romantic character.
However, too late for words soft and humble. Mind made up and dial tone in my ear, I am left quivering and can't figure why. Mayhap this was her final goodbye and I am left holding the filthy leftovers, responsibility all mine and how do I accept so much? Too much to deal with, I need a drink, drugs, death... falling freely I no longer care for the world. The world is cruel and love is cruel and I find escape from cruelty, finally. Phone ringing, it's My Man. Gonna pick me up in an hour...