Upon the subject of gifts, I was born for you, I would die for you, I feel the urgency and I wonder if all this points to the fact that you might know me too. I'll remember the strength that you gave me, now that I'm standing on my own. I am in review while you live and we pretend that we do not exist to each other-- this is the life. Is this the life?
I feel ethereal, don't care about material in this light-headed state of thanks. We are who we are, we are what we are and in this strange mix of ghosts and mortals not much can be mixed. It's all of thanks, memories respected and requests honoured.
There is never any good or proper likeness of me because I am not photogenic and cannot be captured. I am not for photo and I will hide, now and forever that I have realised all of which I am not worth. In a drive through Doris, thinking I am a romantic but learning later that I am merely a dreamer.
It was funny when everyone else described them as alcoholics but now that I know of volume, I know alcoholism is not funny, nor is it a bond. It is like they have said--a disease and too many people I know have this disease. It makes me long for the days of sobriety after swimming on the avenue where the pizza place was open longer than we'd hoped.
It ain't easy to swallow-- it sticks in your throat. She gave her heart to the man in the long black coat.
I thrashed around so much that my cigarettes were on the ground.