Ham-Handed Segue

Seems I don’t write as well as I used to.

Blood must be moving slower through my brain.

Limbs, dick, and heart, for that matter.

Ma asked if I was dead. Said it had been a month since she’d heard from me.

I asked her if she was sure I didn’t just speak with her yesterday.

She informed me that it was Autumn.

I panicked, and ran out to take some pictures of the leaves while I could.

Got side tracked by a puddle, and took pictures of it instead. Why? Fuckifiknow…

Nah, they didn’t turn out so great. Like a crayon drawing of a watercolor.

People are all too eager to paint the problem of their existence.

Carve it out, lay out, make it real– for all that is real can be destroyed.

For what is there to fear, but fear itself?

On the one hand everything’s wrong, but on the other hand nothing is right.

There’s always two paths, no matter where you are.

Decisions, decisions…

I know, I know, that time has passed. Slipped right through like an out of town truck.

One bound for distant lands unknown.

Leaving me with naught but the procrastination of the horribly eventual things to come.