Listening for sounds of footsteps while nursing a hangover. Crawling to the toilet, and puking not only last night’s alcohol, but stomach bile so shiny and yellow it blinds my tired eyes. Insides obliterated, and head on the verge of coming apart. Existence too much, I sit in the garden and look at the weeds. It rains, yet I remain seated. Drenched by a passing storm, there’s nowhere else to go. The mind is a cruel machine, and it won’t let me have a moments rest. I close my eyes and see visions so tragic that I’d give my soul to put them into words. They move me to tears, and when something cuts through my armour, I know it’s worth fighting for. How to capture those nuances, though. How to replicate the magic of ghosts. Sinking to my knees as it pisses down harder, it feels like I’m having a panic attack, only it’s nothing to be feared. It’s just an opening to emotion. Another line of thought that begs to be confronted. Sniffing leaves while dredging the seas of my past, I think of all those mermaids, and how every one of them I let down. Oh, it makes me feel so old, as old as the universe. Even older. Put me out of my misery. Spit me into space, and let me travel to places no one else knows. Let me exist in a perfect vacuum. Just forget about me, so that I may forget about myself. Eating slices of bread, a butterfly lands on my hand and mocks me with its beauty. Compared to me, it’s a million miles away, and it makes me want to get up and run, yet instead I remain there as useless as junk. Dead passive, as empty as false memory. Beads of sweat and nausea, the ingredients of a sunless afternoon spent shying from the face of God. So many times I cut my insides out. So many times I gave them to you, but it was never enough. You just wanted cheap muscle and easiness. Jesus, how I wish I could be like you. How I wish I could settle for second best, for something other than wonder.