Complacency.
I feel stricken by the ghosts of seven different past lives, streaking across the sky until tomorrow's dawn. Having had written correspondence with Jesus Christ to boost my faith, I know this is true. I know you are true. I know that I need to read more than the occassional sports article and short story if I want to become a serious fiction writer. Maybe I'm not meant for fiction, I've hypothesized that before. I know: I was meant for the stage. That's the title of a Decemberists' song I don't ever remember hearing.
Contrition. Contention.
Deep down, glottal feelings in my throat. Real ugly nasty. Things will be okay. One can only hope for the best between two or more souls. We are one within the shells of many. That's what unity is.
We move out, we move upward. I am gone away from here, forewarned and unrequited. Take care of my sisters old boys.
My ears aren't ringing. You aren't thinking about me.
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