I'd like to write something like
I'm having trouble sleeping, and sure could some rest. I'm having trouble thinking. Maybe.
But I didn't write that.
These days I'm doing all kinds of things sacrileg.
Trying to drown my not-sorrows in late nights and wine glasses.
Trying to write, only nothing comes out. Not for the clear skies. The wide open expanses. The everything I ever wanted to happen that has happened that leaves me always feeling breathless and wide awake.
I dream a lot. And live most of my life in glorious.
It's enough for me to not miss the pace.
The life that once was and always will be locked up in these twitchy fingers.
I love you through sparks and shining dragons. I do.
I didn't write that. Either.


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