There's a warm glow when everything's okay, and the best I could exlpain it is in the waning of my hormones.
Manic Monday my mottled ass, racing out of here in bottled up fury at my utter failure to reproduce something I've had working before.
Catching a glimpse of a man on a motorcycle, black swashbuckler locks fighting with the wind.
And I wandered into my home with an armful of groceries and a new chilean wine, heart somehow eased enough that dinner was less chore and more random madman experimenting in the kitchen.
And I played everquest, wasting every moment in unproductive accompaniment, random chatter and quippage.
And somehow, the walls between worlds are too thin for me, everyday the purported hallowe'en -- only the veil that I've lifted is the one between spirit and slef, not death and living.
(Tho writing it out somehow it sounds the same, without the superfluous concept of death.)
And I've torn down the veil and thrown it to the wyrms, their gaping maws outlined against a sunset all too fuschia to be real.
Of course, to me it's real enough, realer even.
Chasing a little dwarf around as he chewed on the ankles of paladdins, it didn't matter that the names and skins were different, the words, the cackling amidst the groping and sailing -- there was a bit inside somewhere that took it as a genuine opportunity to dance.
Maybe it was the wine, half the bottle was gone this morning, but somehow my secret theory is that my first real scream was textual
and to me, the world outside is only a reflection of what counts.
And today I can feel it screaming to my bones, I can see the afternoon flicker through the window-slats, and I can see
I can see the things that I've struggled to remember, in the cold of dark December, in the race to pack it in before the freeze begins I've shut it out I've shut them all out
And today I'm opening my arms again.