I spend my weekends watching the sun come up, and never stepping outside until early morning. When its dark. Plastic room keys, stale sheets, bitter tea from paper cups. Offensively friendly hotel staff. Who's gonna cut me down to a size that suits me? This life takes too long, I spend it driving 5.3 miles to a prison, from a prison. Peering into windows with the lights on, hoping praying to see some kind of movement, a flicker of life a 25 miles per hour. I can't cry right. I don't know where this is leading me, I don't know if I want it to lead me anywhere. There's a taste in my mouth that isn't reminiscent of a passion or joy. Its more of a longing, a desperation. I'm dying slowly to live slower. Emergence from a shell, so to speak; speaking softly.
Foul weather friend I'm tired of blaming everyone else. I'm too tired for everything.