i wish tomorrow were not my birthday. i wish that nine o'clock party were not tomorrow, already filling me with luminous memories that will most likely be hideously unmet tomrorow night. So I probably won't go. but i feel like i should, to save my life. but i should stay here, to save my life.

three years today, three months tomorrow, i miss you mother and i miss the days we had together of yellow ribbons in my hair and our photographs on the backporch.

it's all too complicated. why'd i have to feel this. i steeled myself against it; it happened. i kept fighting but was conflagrated and taken by the deluge. the one thing i want more than anything is the summary of all i'd rather do without.

why think? to cease would make it easier. but it would have me follow through, which would lead me back, from my long-forgotten self to desolation.

oh, when i see you my happiness will be in your hands. i don't want that happiness though. maybe you should just take it away; but i know i'm joking; the next time i see you my soul will shine without me and bring me to nestle with the crystalline incandescence of snow in the afternoon, beneath rose-white clouds that caress the bright unshadowed sky, reminding it to touch down and grace us with its clean expanse -- devoid of such polemics.