Swollen Teeth

Cloaked in patchouli,
stripped of dry sweat
and stubble, no one
sees her but anyone

and from the watch
we stand the same, a stumbled
mass of swollen teeth,
picking at playing old

and once Neil Young
belted flames from
her lips, and dirt
was in your socks

and wrinkled, whispered
brows were borne
of summer's smirking dusk,
of fingers clawing carpet.

And

And every stair's a spiral
chance, a simple
trip from there to
there

And the games are
dry and choking
and the moon is almost
here

And the take lacks
chance and chaos
and is never, always
empty

And it's nothing more
than and and or
and or is only this
time

And the more is
never nothing more
than what there is to
gain

And the end is
moderation, or something
smelling just as
rank

And in the gaps
of awkward travels
and their narcissistic
reign

Lie the echoes of
exaggeration, our
sirens of the
game.

Loose Secure

Creaking curly bones
swaying against time
nearly night already

Soft sole hums
for only two
the rest for laughter

Salt cream carousel
makes loose secure
so much so it’s so

Loaded terms only
the motto reads
we all crack at different teeth

Three hats next
by olive beat
leave your wine in the hall way

Held with feet
sweet blinking breath
stumbling in time and line for written soul.

Fine

Stumbling, bumbling bag of contra
diction's the key and
is all there is any way

Blink through it and
remember sundress brown
swaying with creation

Hit and beat and exhale
white clouds look prettiest
in turquoise rings

Sometimes knowing and always
never knowing
that's the point.

Of Course

Get me over the hill, through the spill.
Into the pumpkin fog of early morning.
Bay at bay and bring it closer.

Take my eyes and feet -
I want my hands for all its winking flaws.
Spill another glass.

Burp a haiku -
art.
Empty, baby.

Rings.
Turquoise.
Continuous present.

Study Break

Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime.
Right on time.
Leaves and cracks. Rolling cries and hurried feet.
Shorts and bags and long hair vines.
Water on the roof and no concentration -
your best attempt.
Butterfly lashes and barroom kisses and what else is there but more of the same?
Some are yellow and some are green. Most are orange.
Study inside if you have to, but you don't have to.
Soon there'll be fresh leaves in the same dress, new bags with turning feet and twirling eyes.
And your eyes gave it away...something about your calm demeanor.

First Date

Our first date was a late afternoon walk through orange sidewalks and autumn temples and you were dressed like a fast burning memory. Red means red, turquoise means both rings and jingle jangle hair means faultless flawed gazing at easy teeth. Broke and confident, broke and cloaked in fraud, broke and stumbling on a free walk and nothing bought comes close. Old, cold sidewalks from distant dreams left unnoticed and there’s nothing but quick empty walks with pretty girls who laugh at marijuana birthdays and skeleton peepholes. I’m sweaty and can’t remember a word I’ve said and I remember it all, every sneaky glance at the curve of your strut and the wham boom buzz of heart pang adolescence and I wouldn’t miss any of it, not even for more.

Obituary

Three days ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer, an unfortunate set of news that, while not unexpected, is certainly disappointing. Late last night, unable to doze off like I normally would, I decided to jot down my own obituary. After all, obituaries are often gray and dreary and impersonal, and who better to write about my life than me? After all, I was there.

Thomas Eugene Hinde is born on March 7th, 1948 in Illinois to Nathan and Katie Hinde. They name me Tom after an old friend and let me sleep on their mattress until I’m two years old. Dad buys me a football and tells Mom I’ll play quarterback someday. Mom serves pink lemonade and lets me stay up until the late night news is over. I turn six and choose basketball over football. My dad is just happy I like sports.

In third grade I draw a portrait of my family that my Mom hangs on the fridge. They tell me I’m an artist and that I can play with the gods if I want to. I don’t know what they mean but I feel loved.

Middle school is a mad blur of red-faced dances and ratty desks, and I turn thirteen on a Tuesday. Mom and Dad take me out for Mexican and I take my picture with a black sombrero. They buy me a Playstation and tell me they’re proud. I feel old, but safe.

High school comes and there are girls everywhere. Alissa Harris has soft brown hair that flows past her shoulders and I love her more than my parents could ever realize. Alissa’s mother drives us to and from the movies, where we hold hands and eat Sour Patch Kids and kiss like we know what we’re doing. After Alissa there’s Aubrie, then Catherine, then Lauren. But Alissa is the first, and brunettes will always have an edge.

When I’m twenty-two I move into that old brick empire on North Pine. There, Candy and I spend our nights reading Kerouac under bright orange embers and honey green tea. She bakes pumpkin bread and takes long bubble baths. I fall in love with the absurdity of our luck and offer her a silver ring in exchange for more. We soon have two children, Sofia and Norah, and I have never known so much beauty.

When I’m seventy-three I stop breathing – too much wear and tear. From empty beginning to natural end, I dance with my eyes open, hungry.

Jesus Christ

Money tears and designer problems, a jumbled pile of steaming idiocy and you don't even smell it. Cut it with a knife - use your sword and hack everything you can't see. If you're gonna cry over spilled debt, take off those camo pants first.

Sunbeam Heroes

Our real heroes were born in the dank musty dark of banjo barn rooms, rested in hay and dirt and whiskey sweat. They grew up on old wooden porches with tall pretty mothers in sundresses and gin and tonic. They played harmonica and explored the rivers and tripped on slip sliding rocks, all in the buff and with a gusto we can only hope to imagine. They started fires with their cocks and played cards with their chests, eyes flying to the beat of billowing smoke and more of that harmonica. Swimming on their backs in dry heat summer they raised you and I to feel it all the same.

No – better.

They fought and clawed and fucked and went through all of it just so we could taste it ourselves, and thank emptiness. Shadowy fall is in full effect now and kids are in the other room necking and if anyone just gave pause and thought it over, everything I’ve said would make sense and we could talk. This isn’t to say what you’ve read is good writing, or even worth your time. But it would make sense, so who cares?

On and On

Tears spit pussy leaves green smoke glass shout fuck we everything nothing meaning all the time.

Eye Vomit

I wish I could capture this split second of life’s red carpet and splice and duplicate it into a million nanoseconds of living in the twirling, starry night of your iris and the soft cotton catch of your scarf, the insatiable comfort of living in your jacket ripping at the seams of my flannel bones, lying on the softest air we could find with your buttons undone, smiling as the moon plays cards with the sun and drinking up the night in wine glasses.

The Royal We

We meander hopefully towards our favorite summer spot, delicately hidden under warm, suburban green shadows. Candy’s soft fingertips sway effortlessly across Tom’s war torn grip, and she nurtures his stubble with the ease of her gaze. We have nowhere else to go, but why should we? After all, this deliciously innocent domain was always their truest aspiration. Or at least mine.

Candy unpacks a long, homemade quilt from her picnic basket and spreads out an enormous lunch, much too large for two quiet individuals. Lost among furrowed brows and children streaming through rich autumn breeze, Candy studies Tom as he dolefully picks at her tender concoction. There is no other sadness like the routinization of a once-loved adventure, and I know I’ll miss you.

Soft brown hair grazes boney knees as we both extend our arms backward, propping ourselves up in green blade quicksand. Candy pours him a glass of lemonade but she’s too late; Tom enjoys the way his flask shimmers silver delight in the warm fall sun. We have to leave soon but I don’t know why – the urgency of our youth is failing us and Candy and Tom can’t gaze at anything but the way it’s all going down. And as the sun creeps slowly behind the university I can see our children stumbling about on that cold, sturdy wooden porch – the one we built with your father before he bid farewell for the mud and sand and glistening water rocks of his truest destination. Goddamn, he loved your splintered soul more than I could ever try. But you know I tried.

I move my fingernails slowly along the bone of your neck and you flinch with hesitation. The gig is up and I can’t stomach it. Handfuls of bladey life fail to make this scene any more bearable for the duo, and before long Tom and Candy lie back flat across the world and stare silently into blue white vacuity. Did you ever need my breath, the stuff hiding below bubble baths and cinny toast and the ache of your morning coffee? Have you actually stopped?

Drunk girls grow into drunk men and it’s all on the lawn for all to see, right on schedule for you and I, Tom and Candy. Say my name and I’ll say yours. Tell the little ones about your time treading water in the sea of paved hills and suburban recreation. Tell them how you taught me about dinosaurs and then explain that I’m one, too (as are you, darling). Tell them all of it, for if you don’t I’ll cease to exist and so will you and I simply can’t bear any more reality.

We’re inching closer to smoke and the yellow pages of time, and soon we’ll barely remember the way the Christmas lights twirled sparkling around our seafront lens. The way our ceilings touched the sky and everything was as clear as a foggy, candlelit bath and the way you smiled at me, like I had just picked up a bottle of red. And for all I know we did, exactly, always. Tom and Candy alone in their cabin, cribbage board by a roaring wood fire, wet merlot and deep kisses, nodding off in fresh, dewy vacuous morning.

Between Jobs

In between those magical dreams of soft feet swaying softer still in the heartbreakingly green grass of childhood and manhood and all the hoods there’s ever been, except for Soulless Adult, occur fascinations flirting with comprehension! The prostitute with his sign, wiggling mindlessly as if a blind jester, his king hiding behind excruciating grays of rain, and concrete, and mini-malls (and what’s the difference - that true, soul crushing shriek of truth that comprises any real distinction between A and B - between a mini-mall and a supermall?), bumming a cigarette from an orange drifter who can’t afford it, waiting for his turn to cross the world. Or earlier, when cruising past the local high school and all its lovelorn portrayals of flashing, heart-pang memories and heroines stacked with perky youth and fast slipping innocence, holding hands like they mean in at and gazing longingly into nothing. Compare that to grimacing, wrinkly old coot in the old blue car, hesitating for more than is socially allowed before finally taking his allotted left turn. And as he rounded the corner you invaded his life, if only for a second, and saw what it’s all about, that hateful, natural, damning bitch of inevitability. And when these short visions of existence’s restless legs and cracked knuckles came to hiatus, and you sat back in the air conditioned leather of manila trappings and gray faces in vomit yellow fluorescence you saw it more, felt the despair of invisible children and bright, burning vexations masquerading as real obstruction. And yet here you sit, tired in your underwear and searching for the Buzz. You traveled miles in a futile quest to span the Spectrum and all you accomplished was a bottle of pale and some glorious white fog. What else?

This Was Probably a Waste of Time, Too

Enough with all the cliches and lines of thought that display only a propensity for cutting corners and a strong dislike for understanding. In your wildest imagination you are described as a woman, breathing in fully the questions therefore begged of you and the responsibilities inherent to your new position. In blinding reality you are a girl shadowed in the locker rooms and hallways and carpets thread bare by the children before and since that were, and likely still are, exactly like you stand now. You're armory of borrowed ideals proves full of little more than wasted spit and wasted time, a reality wherein the bystander to your charade is overwhelmed with the quandary of which scenario is worse: the one in which you squander your days lamenting the evils of man and his long reign over the order of society, or the horrific truth that remains the only honest product of your many footsteps drenched in hate, the fact that all you've done is waste time, an offense for which there exists no forgiving judgment. I suppose one can merely hope that you may someday speak more softly from whatever spot inside you still loves the beauty in rain filled leaf drums and that illuminating waltz between steep cliffs and eternity.

Sirens

The way it goes in moments like these is that infinite curiosity and possibility and the shimmer of chance and it's suspicious scent of fate, in conjunction with the chatter of new souls whose eyes foretell all of the aforementioned, together comprise a score for the seductive, romantic, recklessly intoxicating pursuit of that which is so often hard to grasp: the New. Using little more than half a moon and the cool, salty night breeze that you can still taste if you close your eyes and try hard enough, under door frames built by the hands of a long-forgotten generation, moving with the best of strangers and friends who knew you long before you had nights like these.

Gasps around long bouts of tastefully awful pool magically occur in the imagined living room of the King of Water Street, the legendary emperor whose shadow remains, all of these years and nights and children and bittersweet memories later, largely responsible for tonight's stage. Uma Thurman serves your brew, stoic with perfected indifference yet romantic with age and those exquisite, perfectly arranged possibilities. Twenty-five feet "away" is where you really take off, though, cornered between the King's study and the now-dimming lights of tantalizing sail boats and the adventures that surely occur with regularity (but not too much regularity, for what could possibly be worse than the routinization of a once-loved adventure) aboard their pristinely salty decks. Lost, however briefly, in the smoke and shadows of shared understanding, your night begins to reveal, with increasing speed and momentum, the significance of this moment spent in the emperor's living room, under the phantom spell of events that shatter all plans and preconceived notions of how you're gonna get your Fill. Later you'll move much too quickly back across the water, drifting away from the King's castle and its smoky corners and table light cribbage and the supernatural joy of seeing another through that same foggy lens of dashing adolescence. And with a sad resignation you'll greet the heartbreaking acknowledgment that there is nothing more temporary, more devastatingly fleeting than moments like these.

Another Fourth

The prickly plastic of summer nights spent poolside, dreaming with muggy stars of concepts far from understood - indeed, beautifully misunderstood - evolved, naturally, into the intimate sharing of vanilla evenings and the clarity that lies in honest, beautifully flawed human connection. Through the glass and smoke came the intoxicating spell of community, of shared understanding and the holy comfort of an unbreakable foundation. And now here we are. The glass is here, as is the aluminum and the smoke and the evidence of lives dedicated to the steadfast preservation of days like today. Happy Birthday, America.

Nicole

Heart dancing so fast it's going to vomit, twirling in the open fields and misty mountaintops of home and memory and inexplicable power. You exist and you can feel it - each step is significant, and you exhale with each thud and the onslaught of what's now required. And these are those nights that you absolutely, undoubtedly and without the slightest pause or hesitation exist to explore. One fleeting presentation of a feeling unmatched in its potential for despair and visceral, honest, unflinching bliss. One of those nights where turquoise toenails, eyebrows and misplaced sighs play on a stage equal to their peers, the soul-crushing smile and an extra beat in the look. The walls of these nights are cluttered with the uneasiness of youthful vulnerability, of the self-made delusion that there is something tangible to be gained from this, finally this, endeavor. Oh, but there is! There always is. For no matter what you encounter in the presentations to follow, this one happened, and it happened it to you. Your existence met its example and you did your damndest to dance tirelessly, to continue moving with the rhythm of white knuckles and laughter and those tantalizing nanoseconds filled with intoxicating possibility. Remember this as you rest your head to the pillow at the end of nights like these, clinging to the quickly dissolving evidence of their abbreviated occurrence, challenging the stars of fate under muttered breath and droopy red eyes...until next time...

TL

I once knew a man whose experience radiated in the sweat and stubble and fat of a life spent searching for the beauty that makes your heart break at the first sign of its existence, and for which you'd gladly devote the rest of your days in the hope that you may prolong its demonstration for one...more...moment.
If only.
From this man came three examples of love, light shining through the creaks of their smiles and the ironic wisdom of their short experience. These examples cured an illness for which I hadn't known I was afflicted, their souls crushing mine into believing that its remedy was possible in all of us. And when I found myself in the scorching depths of the eldest, a stunning sage of abbreviated affection, I did my best to heed the halting screams of violent life that had been bestowed upon her small, perfect breasts from the time her eyes first met the world and began dancing innocently in all its damning potential. And when she left and took with her the game we had created, the rules of which were forged in the fucking and sweating of youthful ignorance, my eyes met a temporary fog in which every shape and color became tainted with the proof of her departure and its startling reality, and after endless days spent lamenting this occurrence I somehow felt content in knowing that the life breathed into her gnawing existence was done so by the man drenched in sweat and stubble and fat, the man from whom I learned the beauty in abbreviated sensations of comfort and hope and the blinding joy in the search for more.

Class

Curves and folds of mustard yellows and tomato reds conceal her privileged secrets, a fresh garden of effortless sensuality. Her vulnerability embodies an indisputable charm and beauty, and for a fleeting eternity she's yours - she's all of ours. And then, just as quickly as it started, she retreats back into the shadowed land of irrationality, where desires dance with recklessness under the watchful eye of every Student.

Everywhere

When our imaginary purpose has reached its solemn conclusion, we will flee sprinting from our station - a one-off time that provides for the uniform rows of wealth and production - and make our escape! We will dance as we leave its storied neighborhoods and the old, sad, haunting faces that seek to obstruct our exit. We will continue for what we can't yet dream of - there's nothing more intoxicating than a new scent. As we scour the bars and motels and gas stations for our new queens, lost and found in the fire of our eyes and the warmth in our guts, we will surely realize that which was true from the start and even before that. We'll see that here, just as there, the girls dance in breathless sun dresses, lying under tree tops and dueling with endlessness, making love with their ideas under the passing of another time.

Spring

When the results of this collegiate quarter are etched in finality, some - myself included - may deem my efforts lackluster, a disappointing end to an otherwise fair senior session. Indeed, if these judgments were to be waged against me I would have little in the traditional reservoir of excuses and explanations to defend myself; I wouldn't anyway. Lack of motivation...too much wine...too much pot...too many nights spent falling asleep to the voices of old comrades and the joyous, soul-crushing laughter of simplicity. It is true that I engaged in all the aforementioned with an appreciation heretofore unseen - a gusto that ripped at the threads of routine and stepped on the tatters of that nasty, nightmarish future in which none of us Exist, where our nights are shorter and our souls no longer get crushed. We possess life's bounty in the spontaneous nanoseconds of our smoke-filled mosaics, our kingdoms where loyalty, history and youth all work in unison to form the noble bloodline. For those imagined critics and my own self-doubt, I urge the steadfast remembrance of this human experience - the apex of our participation - for it is, in the end and always, the reason Why.

Little Things

There's a line spoken towards the end of "Vanilla Sky," as Tom Cruise realizes the meaning behind his life and its current manifestation: "It's the little things."

In the evidence of our long ago union, these are the things that I miss and cherish the most:

The idea that I could lay my back against the long of your legs, or take a lesson in evolution in our own front yard.

That I spent most mornings kissing you as you woke up, coffee with cream in your favorite blue mug.

That your bike cluttered our room, in our apartment - hindsight has proven my complaints to be little more than selfish immaturity.

That we had a Christmas tree, and a knife set, and, eventually, even our own pet. (I'm glad that I won out in the quest for his affection, by the way, thought I think that may have been by default).

That, for a time, M211 was my home. And that it was yours, too.

Screen Doors

"BREAKING NEWS!" Noisy flashes of bright desperation posing as journalistic coverage. From the beginning and in the end, this night is not unlike numerous others spent under the spell of smoke, and merlot, and camaraderie. In the foreground lies the usual assortment of amusement and stability - comfort in repetition and its consistency. The chatter in the background is constant, at times approaching a volume as obnoxious as it is unnecessary. Speculation drives curiosity, and the two's eternal dance provides the foundation for journalistic commentary.

Suddenly, a man - a leader - his face strong, his voice stern. As he reads from his script, I allow the gigantically small impact of his words to wash over me, falling momentarily for the trap. Just then, a savior! Prancing through the wooden fortresses and haphazard compounds of his world, enters the cat - a feline often afraid of everything, save for the other side of the screen. His final destination is none other than the lone barrier to unimaginable freedom - if only he could escape!

In the background, the somber, yet triumphant tone of the commander is being met with brash excitement and an irrational sense of victory. Perched in the foreground, the cat revels in his unyielding determination. Eyes wide and claws extended, he tries again and again to realize his truest aspiration. At no point in his quest does the cat pause to reflect on the words of the leader, nor of the blood that is now leading rallies and celebrations from coast to coast. Instead, the cat continues his futile escape effort, pricking and pawing at his eternal enemy. Alas, to little fanfare, he succumbs to the inevitability of his battle - it was, in the end, not to be.

Indeed, on this night only one enemy would experience defeat. A monster, no doubt, but a man nonetheless. And as his corpse sways quietly with the ebb and flow of the world beneath, yet another enemy maintains his survival, embodied in our festivities and the bloodlust that fuels their expansion. The trap is participation, as is the crime, and it's an offense for which we all, on this night, are guilty. Except for the cat, of course.

Happy Holidays

Open your eyes to the beautifully mundane. Introduce yourself.

Sidelines are for those with regrets. Do not be one of these people.

Find comfort in the fact that catty judgments and petty confrontations are clearly exposed as such. You are not blind.

Keep climbing with those around you. Together, you form a company rooted in history and reciprocity.

Fill your lungs with the smell of this era. Inhale deeply the sounds of youth and the smell of irresponsibility.

Scream in appreciation for the gift of this excursion and the bounties that lie ahead. Things tend to move quickly.

EXIST FULLY. Why would you want to do anything else?

Take it all in one big hit. It's the greatest fucking high in the world, after all.

Stable

In the green, and red, and black, and green...in our last-ditch, pre-dawn battles to suppress the return of accountability...in the stumbling, and sprinting, and balancing, and halting...in the layers of smoke and bottles, where our thoughts linger and our history is forged...in the echoes of the guitar and piano, which dance with the voices of all artists...in the covers and the car, in hotels and new homes, We continue the ultimate adventure...through the doors that never lock.

The Con

Revel in the comforts you know to be True.
Moments bend and conform, overlapping into silent motion pictures for which you're always the star.
The con is your strongest adversary, but you should try not to run.
Don't you have to beat him sometime?
Or are you content?

Real Women

Yesterday was International Women's Appreciation Day. I suppose the idea behind its conception was to salute--to "appreciate"--the women in our society worthy of such acknowledgment. I can't help but wonder, however, why this idea need be relegated to one specific day. There are countless women among us who deserve our appreciation and, in many cases, gratitude, for all that they contribute to our perspective and understanding, and they deserve this recognition on a consistent and respectful basis. Indeed, I think that the idea of publishing headlines on Facebook in some display of "solidarity" with These Women, many of whom serve only as an abstract construction of womanhood, misses the forest for the trees and, in all reality, contributes nothing to a deeper understanding of their significance. These expressions--the saddest of which are those whose words imply a deeper understanding of Real Women than they have (clearly) yet to experience--are truly the most disappointing.

Now, I have no illusions regarding my own limitations in this exercise--I am a male, after all. But I also feel that my biological restrictions need not preclude me from seeing the beauty in Real Women, from consuming the Truth that accompanies their existence. They are those discussing ideas, concepts that challenge their imagination and further their desire for understanding. They are those confident in their identity--the ones who scoff at the pretentiousness accompanying those that Fake It. They dance to all kinds of music, except for those that aren't music at all. They hold truth and experience, friendship and understanding, as the pillars of their religiosity. They make us better, not because of any power held by their inherent eroticism, but because their disposition is rooted in trust and stability.

These women scream self-assurance! Their decision not to speak ill of others was never really a choice to begin with, but rather a subtle acknowledgment of the impostors clamoring to wear their skin, and the sour taste left in All our mouths as a result of these desperate attempts. They display their beauty most spectacularly in the mornings, when they are devoid of any cosmetic assistance and are left instead with their truest expression. They Love deeply, and if one is lucky enough to have been ensnared in their articulations then he (or she) will forever be altered in their understanding of Real Women. This is one of their greatest Gifts, after all. They make you forget what was ever appealing about girls.

Real Addiction

Addicted to the dreams where we still exist.

To the grip of your side of the bed.

To the shadows of contentment and the whispers of comfort.

To the idea that our distance is temporary.

To the box of evidence, out of sight.

To the memories of our battles and their inconsistent victories.

To the pride taken in your company.

To the challenges you proposed in nearly every circumstance.

To the old feeling of your expected return.

To the idea that this is all a mistake.

The Box

Do you Know the man who lives in The Box? Close your eyes and See.
The Box's dimensions provide the man comfort. He knows where to go, or at least where he's Been.
This is not to say that The Box is Safe.
The contents of The Box are numerous and easy to trip on. At times The Box may even feel dangerous.
Each individual element in The Box exists in tandem to provide the landscape of It's World.
Well-documented pitfalls masquerade as joyous Receipts. Be careful not to easily dismiss this joy, however, for there is Much that needs little filtering.
Do you notice that the man doesn't belong Here? Or, if you do not wish to bear the responsibility of an ill-formed opinion, do you at least wish for him to Escape?
I Know I do.
I want him to hasten through the corridors of Truth and Perception, through the trap doors of Knots and Trust.
I want him to conquer that which for so long has appeared unattainable.
I want him to Live.

Utopia

In Utopia we are All There.
We get high on the foundation of our bonds and the currency which keeps them strong.
We explore our surroundings and the elements of our Connection.
We Burn and Shiver, sometimes in unison. Our foundation provides the tools to meet either's excess.
We Talk. And talk. And Talk. That's the best part.
We think we Know--maybe we do. My best Guess lies somewhere in the middle.
Utopia is intoxicating. It's taken paths and endless possibilities fuel our infatuation.
Don't go Empty.
In Utopia we are All There.

That Kitchen

Do you remember That kitchen?
The sun somehow peeking into an otherwise dark place.
Warmth. Youth. Strength and passion. True passion.
"Cyprus Avenue" over eggs and bacon. Baths. Games. Long nights.
My favorite.
Most things appear to run together as one used, old record. I can't help it.
Sometimes I think it'd be nice to go back and warn the kid in That kitchen.
No.
He'll miss It when It's gone.