Well, well welllllllll

What do we have here?
Hope?
Well guess what? I'm not afraid of you. Dance away.

we heart it


I'm not yours
You're Not Mine
Be My Anti-Valentine

When It's over

In a second or a day or fifty years from now, it will be over. Choose your own "it." It doesn't matter. The over part is what's interesting.

Peeled and rotten. A moldering book in a second hand bin. Even fame will wash your real self away. So don't struggle to hold on to all that pride and competition. Let it go.

I like walking through ruined cities. To stand in parking lot places where there was once a thriving night club. It brings the hope down to size.

It reminds me that my thrilling today is someone else's asphalt tomorrow.

I like fizzy champagne like Marilyn Monroe. Who was really Norma Jean... who left herself at the door for her moment of wonder, and didn't look back.

Me too.

Can I be Frank?

Or Mary, or Jane? Or Maryjane?

Anyone but now or here or how.

I don't like sorrow. And it's all I know, and there is no reason really.

Even from the ancient days when I was very young the world made me ache.

Simplicity is my own tragedy. A full moon. A stark bird. A winter sunset. Sorrow in my bones.

Perhaps I am a piece of it and not supposed to be a person at all.

Maybe I'm just missing.

Can I be the leaves and the sun and the moon and the laughing and the squeaking swings?

Can I be many? I don't like one.