I am incomplete. The reason I ever wanted to come back home, open the door...has gone from this planet. My Bun, The Bun is dead. He died not in my arms, but alone, in a veterinarians cage. Poked by needles that did him no good. Bruises. Holes. Scars that will never heal. So limp he was a half life, while I held him and kissed his dry lips and whispered in his flopped ear "I love you the most, I love you the most, I love you the most" for the last time. My body doesn't know how to feel, I've left something behind. The gas is on, the water is running....no, no, no. My reason, my tangible soul is nowhere. I may never dream again.

I have Morrisey's "The More You Ignore Me" playing over and over in my head. So what am I ignoring? I know for sure it was my laundry. Getting to it. I need to clean out my top desk drawer. Mop the floor. Transfer hard drive, balance checkbook, get in balance, find a doctor, find someone that cares, care a little less. Will it scream out my name, in the dark, in the night, and when I sit up in bed all alone like so many other nights, will it be there? Close, closer. I should drive. I should drive until I don't know where I am and the opportunity for distraction is stolen by fear. Then I couldn't ignore anything. Not even myself.

Lying on the floor with a piece of shit arm, wondering what is the purpose of a blog that never gets read? The ol' tree in the forest and one hand scenario on my laptop or just my fragility needing? Needing validity. Waiting for epiphanies to pour in as comments as well as posts. Plug up the slow leak in my soul as I feel it ooze in conversations when I am able to say less and less. I expect to find parts of me in the shower, washed away, clogging the drain. All I see are tangles of hair. I am tangled. This net is a dumping ground for the naked body and the stripped searched mind. I just never thought thoughts were waste.

All the galaxies we ponder are no more. The pulsars have shifted into new matter and the white hot dwarfs have formed clouds of the future. We will never see it. When we look out, the light is going away so we know we see the past. The past is reaching us, in our now. Our now is barely touching. When our sun dies, we won't see it, we will never know the type of life to extend beyond Earth. Can a thought carry on? Energy quiver, ripple through the dust and riddle of space..the actual space between spaces? Will it hold worth? Will it know of its intelligence? I can wriggle my toes in the green grass, hear the ducks chase and quack over my head, but I don't see the future when I look. Everything has happened before. I am now. When will I shift with the red and happen to be?

The average man who does not know what to do with his life, wants
another one which will last forever.
-- Anatole France

Suppose an infinity of insecurity, indecisiveness and surety of no
destination. The destination is to never have a destination.  To never
end.  Why hope for this?  Why do we ponder away this whole life, that
we know is here, now?  I will freeze with the joy I have, so full,
brimmed with this life only too aware that it will all end.  I stop.
I barely breathe in the middle of a gust of glee while the knowing
and the ease smash into each other, showing me how uncompr-
omising reality....is.  It rolls on my tongue.  The most delicate of
flavors.  I want everyone to have a bite. 

How do you show what you are made of, what the sum of time composed? The width of your ass, the amount in your wallet? What to show? Make a list, crack the code you couldn't break in elementary during tag, during recess, after school. Pour out your spleen to every one you brush against and listen to yourself cram for the exam of being a person, being somebody, that matters. How can you show the work when you don't know the answer? Who grades it anyway? I never looked at anyone else's paper. Why need to show mine?