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1:02 p.m. - 2005-06-11
Visit sacred miracle cave 162.
Make excuses while you make the bed. So ordinary and unattractive, well, life goes on. And so it does and so we all do what we must. There�s no quitting in�in what? What game is this? Stop taking pictures, baby. There�s no point in complaining. They�ll paste your body to the walls and take a step back to examine the point, the perspective and the quality. No Mona Lisa, but perhaps it�s not so bad. Maybe the painters went on strike. And�and I�m happy in my shell. You can�t see my insides when I color outside the lines. When I close the door, the windows all become one way mirrors. I�m not making this up. I couldn�t if I tried. I�m sick of getting upset. Too much to say, to say a thing. I�m wrapping myself up in discomfort. It�s gotten pretty bad. They say if you have to lie to yourself then you�re the one they pity. Then, we�re all a mess. We are our own easiest targets. I wish I could explain away my insecurities, silence, and well, no. I guess that�s another lie to add to another story. There�s a point when every funny story loses its touch and I start to feel broken inside. Don�t write about feelings, he says. I�m no poet. The poet always dies in the end. Tragically, dramatically, noticeably. Angry looking birds swoop down. Vultures. They screech and I understand their language. �Stop giving back to the community� �stop caring� �stop trying to help� �stop stop stop!� I�m not pleading my case. I�m sulking. An ongoing case of the blues. I�m painted green. Lonely. Not envious. I envy no one. Why don�t you talk? I�m not directing traffic. Twenty Four/ Seven and you need a haircut. I�m demanding your change. I call you Chance. You�re a risk taker and you hate breathing loudly. Sneak up on your prey. Don�t hesitate. Write poetry about a love. Take pictures of the sky. Send your best friend a letter. Don�t tell them how to live. Don�t listen. �Don�t, Don�t, Don�t� And stop taking pictures. Stop playing the tambourine. Stop. I don�t know why. Selling your soul to slavery. It�s all response to wearing it on a t-shirt colored orange. There�s no mystery left and I don�t care if this friendship lasts. Why don�t you talk? So, I hide. I don�t cry. I haven�t cried in months. Months. An expression of tears is more fitting. A universal feeling tied to a universal act. And I�ll love you forever. These bad habits are defining me. I�I think I�m letting you down, but you see, I run this night club and if I don�t take charge, then we�ll all be forgotten. We�ll all grow up and lose imagination. In kindergarten we traded a piece of a snack for a piece of a snack; a sign of friendship. I suppose that lasted forever, too? What if we traded pieces of our hearts- signifying nothing more then a friendship that has to live on because if not, we�d both die. The saddest part is we never needed each other. My point is being ignored or perhaps I�m still holding back. I don�t want to make it. I don�t want you to understand. I want my loneliness. Click. Yes, another picture. I�m not what you want me to be. I�m so disappointing. And it goes on like that because that�s what they say and�.and I listen to them because I always have. You can tell my voice by my choppy writing. I�ll hate this later. I hate it right now. The weather changes half way between our houses and I blame that for your inability to understand me. I�m making excuses as I make the bed. I�d want to sleep forever if I could sleep for even an hour, but earthquakes are screaming for attention and my span is never ending when it comes to helping the helpless. It�s not comfortable anymore. And�.I better end this before I do something crazy like write the truth and tell everyone exactly what�s bothering me. Because that really could be the worse thing I could do.

Oh, but don't forget the garden jewelry or the promises you're sure to break.

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