b 4.0
Friday, May 03, 2002
Kyle insists that I must stop hitting the bottle. I maintain that booze is not the source of my torment, but rather the work that keeps me here and her there. Another day dissolved into a march towards a goal whose bitter taste sticks in the dry mouth of a pupil whose brain is full. Time teases us and wraps itself, cold and untouchable, around all that we do and dream...people look back and lament, another day's useless energy spent. Then, as daylight faded maidens came to rescue me, to cool my skin, to level my head.

© 2007 Corey Bruno