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A write that i'm working on. It's not finished, read if you want.

As the flaming ball gradually descended below the radiating edge of static, the darkness fed vision into the varmits of the night. I creep around the midnight contemplating over the murder of my existance. A sly vehicle approaches my side. Sitting in the compact vehicle are dour faces that light up the idea of possesing a vehicle. As I stare in silence, they question the moment of mute.

"What's the long pause, pal?" They snapped

My judgemental thoughts concur the prolong delay. Detecting the steady idle of tempermental emotion, I retort in a demeanor that all so well excites the underage party dwellers: "The sounds of silence lingur oh so well, blocking or delaying the sounds that surround me.

A puzzled faced was laced with confusement.

"What's we got here? An educated junkie that depicts an unreasonable response that has no political meaning?" He vouches.

A sustainable, but appropriate vibrance elects the relationship of what all hostile relationshipa are arisin from. Standing there after the questions from the gang of fragile egg shell minds, the night turned mature to young. The highlighted sparkle from the dazzled road projected a strobed radiance. The moon lit off the inflamed darkness. Everywhere became a momentary relapse. Sprawling out of the "conversation", I stalked the night.


A compact room
Surrounded by closed in walls
Increased comfort
Safe within my room
Nestled in my womb
A vanish of gloom

Vanishing inide my room, i hide. I am all so well abiding to the comfort of my confidential lair. This is where I rest. Where i eat. Where I slip into unconsciousness and dream of a dream that is bound to be dreamed of. My eyes shatter into darkness and I drift off uncontrollably, desiring the relentlessness of sleep. I drift off.

My awakening eye wakes the other. The jolting light of a blinding fright, vanishes the night. I am awake, alive and wanted. No guilt troubles my dwelling and no remorse feeds the guilt. I ease up and grab myslef a pasteurized beer that drowns down my stomach. My brain is screaming like a toad as my socks are peeling over my feet, toasting them steadily as I scramble for my balance; that beer was put on strong, a little too strong. I belched and felt so down that it was looking up at me. I puked casually and wiped my mouth of leftovers. I stumble outside.

The side walk slithered on down to the neighborly cafe. My breathed was stained with the stench of alcohol, mainly because of the night before. I successfully fucked myself up in solitaire drinking and drowned myself again a couple hours after that. Getting home was the only problem I I had that night, so the only choice I had was to hitch. I killed a fee ignorant kids for their ride and mossied on home after that. They were very hostile to me and I needed a ride home. Better them than an innocent bystander that dwelled lonesomely in thr night.

Murder is a question that lingures on and on. Why not? We do it all the time and not just to ourselves. Hell, it's a ritual, a hobby, protection, a game, reason, and even a common interest. I executed space, space for the worthy. Space for the people that deserve. Don't worry about me though. I'm not dwelling in remorse or guilt. I drown in liquor and dwell of lonesome. Many nights the star struck sky blinks of sprayed out suns that burn a long ways away. My eyes clutter with beautiful strobe lights. The hollowed out night guides me blindly through th le streets and shatters me around town. I collect myself over night and appear back at my apartment, sober for more.

The lull I gain from a sunken dram is much more than a coping situation. It's not a tool; In don't use it to fix something when something's broken. The lull is the dram. I thrive for the lull evey second. Every minute. Every hour. Every day. It's a compulsion, a reflex. I can no longer find or witness myself begginf for a dram. A dram to slam down my guzzle.

I remember the day. The day was deceiving and possessed by a plague that hid inside everything that brough joy. It found you, made love to you and left you begging, begging to come back. The misery it left. The pain! The plague! It hides in familiar faces, creeps along milecular shapes and chases you through endless masses. I cannot hide. You cannot hide. You seek out joy in life and find it. You become acustom to it and thrive for it. It's like a woman that you long for and achieve the woman of your build. The pain grows inside you from the start, but you don't realize it till she leaves you and you're left hurting, thriving for another lull. I am here, you are here, and we are both hurting. "The sectet of life is suffering. It is hidden behind everything. When we begin to live, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what is bitter so bitter, that we inevitably direct all our desires towards pleasures, and seek not merely for a 'month or twain to feed on honeycomb', but for all our years to taste no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be starving the soul "


Electric sensations filled the air. I engulfed the power that flowed in a roaming lingur. The day was filled with hyperness that was fed by living. My hands electricuted and by coldness, stiffed ouy and numb. Moving liked a jagged log that "rolled" down the street, I broke the dense crust that bound my hands from heat. I slipped into a saw dusted cabin to get a drink; I needed to warm up. Inside the saloon I took pulsating steps to the bar. The laughter of the few drunken men bounced around echoed in eternity.

"What you havin'?" Ask the bartender.

"Straight up whisky." I demanded

"Dollar-seventy five." He demanded back.

Searching my pocket, I find some lint and a dime. I sighed and revearsed myself out. My spontaneous addiction left me mourning. The centripetal force puts me in a direction in life, which reminds me that i have no choice, variety, or characteristic of change. I am at the point where my previous actions and decisions have brought me face to face with the solution to the equation. I have reached my peak. No more curiosity or suprises. The experiences have dulled out to transfigured mistakes that are compacted within my memories like a book of content. I feel myself peeling away at my expired life like a scab rotting away on your arm.

Author's Note

Not finished