An Artful Dodge

Heartsick solipsist for hire, for him. Nevermind the gap and disconnect the dots but be gentle with the brutal bruises from my coups of confidence; they're tinder. There is something that I need you to tell me:

Down what dark alley might one procure the necessary x-factor?

You know what I'm talking about. Now tell me the truth and tell me that you don't know. I'll tell you the truth: I've lost faith in the truth; it is just a measure of the facts. I am exactly that kind of coward; finding comfort, if not salvation, in the many skinny arms of premium class A's.

If you sleep alone, you sleep alone, and maybe I should just try to stay awake, or go outside and sleep in the rain and sink into the mud, or maybe I can wriggle open the latch and escape for a second and fly in frenetic circles around this room or I could re-arrange my days because I don't really have anywhere I need to be and I find life a little easier to take when it is a blur, a carousel of pictures sensually, purposefully, bouncing up and down; like I did that one time in that one memory that I have long since forgotten.

We are a blight. All of us.