Words can feed you, become the meal on your plate, the shoes on your feet, the shirt on your back. But does this satisfy your soul, wicked word smith? Impact of punctuation, of collation, of silly grammer rules. I hate rules, always want to crack rules and scramble their innerworks with a side of toast.

Your the third person to move on me. Maybe now it's my turn to ship up and off.

This has nothing to do with the words I'm manipulating, the fact that you are the third. I want to connect these things in a special webbing, but it's not possible right now.

I'm too emotionally keen and too tired to be that truthful right now and there is a taste of wine and cigarettes in my mouth that is both common and unfamilar right now. Until my plate is back to normal and until I can curl up in my fresh sheets, my thoughts are mine alone.