Passing time is a distortion of truths; memories lost to fantasy. I prefer the new reality and I prefer the unraveled weave. The past could never be written accurately, so I choose to write nothing of it at all. Imagined defense against tangible demons works wonders of God-sized proportions. Hours of tears have become empty oceans of salt water, with no creatures living deep below; even those with no natural predators have been eaten alive. No lessons can be learned from what's been licked and rubbed away. Deep thoughts that seemed new are now deja vu. This is how I cope.

06/21/2007

Posted on 06/21/2007
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