A smoke beneath the stars and time is frozen like a billion cold hearts chasing dollars and cents and I wish I could be warm and sometimes I am but not very often. Perhaps I could drive an ice cream truck. Perhaps I could work in a guitar store and cut all the strings because I can’t make music and I wish oh I wish that I could but I can’t because my fingers are chubby and I have no ear for rhythm. Beer should do more, but it never does. Love is a tree; its roots the history we choose not to let fade away. Without roots, it can’t grow. If something can’t grow, how can it show the world just how beautiful a thing it can be? Oh, I dunno. There’s dust on windowsills. Dust on top of dust. I try to cling onto things, but even when they’re in my hands, they slip through my fingers like sand. There are women. There are ghosts. There are kitchens slipping into the sea that once shook with the energy of a hand shaking a polaroid. The hand also shook at the gods seeking vengeance for the theft of childhood innocence. The end of my own childhood was a swift one. As soon as I ejaculated for the first time, I was as good as dead. I try not to think about such things though, as too many sobering thoughts cause me to drink.