Pardon me, I have journal entries. Pardon me, I have to hit "Send," because I'm always bursting at the seams -- see that's my illness: I shamble after people, and things, and dreams and dance despite my patella dislocation and I am always displaced becuase the clouds, up there, that's where I go to all the time to get a drink even if it's way past 3 and even the "angel-headed hipsters" have to go home by 3am, but I don't know where they go home to; and I wait anyway until they come back. Pardon me I'm always talking about the clouds, this brown piece of an aberation in the whiteness of it all, and the brilliance of them all. You know why my skin is mottled? It's the spindrift of the brilliance I'm always dying to catch, that's why. Spotted-bobcat in urban nightscape jungle I become, always running away from trouble and never facing them, always drunk on elusive dreams, oh I'm always talking about dreams, they make me burst at the seams and I have to sew myself back together every Monday for work.
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