Despite the fact that it might be too late, he continues to habitually insulate...
More like an isthmus than a peninsula, the bridging of gaps and the attempts to collapse miscommunications are as basic as the realization that there's no actual gradient between sand on a beach and infinite sea. In pieces he is but keeps pleading to the heaps of unreasonable beings til he retreats. And heeding a breach to his peace is pretty easy...
Can you see what I mean?
Actually that "he" is me, and I hastily scrape away at relationships as if they were thin sheets of ice, spiting out trite lies and driving blindly like I'm trying to breeze through midnight fields with hail striking the windshield. I might as well be in a pile of thigh-high snow, mulling over what I know while taking a bite of some potent frozen delight til I achieve that delightful brain-freeze.
What the fuck am I reciting?
And why do I keep calling me "he"? And what about my sea of arrested, repressed and arisen memories of things I used to see when...well, I'm hesitant to expel these, and I'd much rather digress than dive head-first and wade up to my neck in this hyperbole of a mess. And now I'm backpedaling, but fuck it, I regret even mentioning anything in retrospect.
And why the fuck can't I forget?
I'm shaking in the wake of this scene; next to me is my remote so I'm tempted to surrender my attention to the tv because I'm not quite ready to concede and tell you all why I'm defeated. Despite this I might just proceed to dress the whole thing up so you don't judge one of the people I revere...
But what's the point of continuing to write if none of you even care?
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