Shredding the day's night's endless waking with a vengeance and turning to the west with a halfhearted snicker I pour the contents of my skull into the stress bin and witness the crucible of former fantasies twisting the fated destruction into a sinister pattern of unwelcome deceit which engulfs my beliefs in an empty but flirty shroud of ennui digust and doubt. Pasts without futures spew forth remnants of suicide note love letters replete with mercurial subjectivity and starving children who stare at me with wide eyes and deserted homes as they poison the scraps of food they discover so that they can watch the greedy asphixiate in their hands while they dream of a loving afterlife. The elderly man was just fourteen years old so he draws a memorial to the passage of time on his casket and grants the wind the status of a living being so that mothers and children will surrunder to the forgetting of their existence and not waste themselves upon the shores of a sea of the mundane which keeps them transfixed long enough to miss the beauty of their collective loss. "A pity" he thinks as he slits his wrists and ends up on life support on Sweeps Week on television while a small crew of junkies and rapists tape his last breath and go to the drug store for condoms and smokes. The Dad's love for the Mom keeps him alive, but the Mom's been dead for twenty years and died hating him. I sleep cause I can't eat.

These are the visions and words which fill my empty moments so I take great pains and medicines to keep them to a minimum. It sucks, but what would you do? I'm not sad, but I'm questioning.