after the fact

raw bullshit, but whatever.

After the fact

 

It’s a cliché: my hands laid out: a. s .d .f .j . k . l; dot, dot, dot, whatever.  Plotting on life. No attention for the cursor. No time but for contemplation.  Im not 100% (sure what that even means).  When do I deteriorate? Or Will I? Have I?  surely.

 

Where do I end up? I am out of the moment. This whole time Ive just been writing. Even now beyond remembering.  Lying. Fiction.

 

In this case, words for sake alone. Interesting, perhaps. Empty, for sure.

 

At least I am being honest. 

Author's Note

duh.