Oh lordy, take me take me, ocean and husband, and writing, too, because I think if I crunch one more number or do one meaningless, utterly useless, bullshit discounted cash flow, I might die. I need freedom, I can taste it, from the cell(ular) block of my brain, and just need the haptic happenstance, with you, with the breeze, with warmth and with salty air. I get so fucking crazy, you know, compartmentalizing, throwing every good bit of me away, for what? Corporate waste? I need something else. This job is my undoing. I was built for another era. I send a postscript on every paper I write, my desperation accelerating, but she just says, "well-written" or "nice work". I don't need a smiley face sticker, or the stamps before them; I need advice Lady, on how to do it, won't you champion me? Take my message down the right channels and take pity on me? I need to be a fussy writer with multiple residences. I need him in another life, in all lives, but I'm grateful he's at least in the one. I can't even look directly at him sometimes like fear of the sun, that blinding burn, total annihilation, in my love, My Love. We never hate each other ever, not even a little, and every fight or sleight is made magnitudes more manageable with the fact known by every fiber and ligament and humor in my body that we will get over it, that I can't hate someone with a face like that, that a fleeting gulf is not a sign of impending undoing because we are still standing together, on the same side, just like we always are; and that he is mine. Whoa. Wow. I love you.

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