left behind in puddles

A night of life brings a blurry morning, lines jagged through the crowd, greyish tongues. and these questions that float in with the calm.

(I just think that a house shouldn't be built on a gold mine. It should be comfortable—a catalyst. Fist fights and apple pie and milk dripped down to tiles. And I don't know why it bothers me so strongly. It is not jealous, but just an alien way. I think all those happy homes hide knives. It makes me want strange. I want to see you, violently, at least some life in that.

I am capsized in a plastic cup. I need to crawl back under the blankets, stare at the ceiling, create some new sky.