Brooklyn brownstones sailed across crooked cobblestones. It was a fine ship, all dressed to the nines; but one that must be abandoned by first morning light. A termites appetite subsisted well, feeding upon what was left of our vessels port and starboard. Ounce for ounce, the captains air-guitar was excluded from the manifest. Yes, it was a frivolous and scot-free talent. Pardon a sailors mouth, but I was pretty fucking good at it.
“I sense much anger in you”, opportunities to quote Yoda are few and far between; but have you ever tried opening a wine bottle with a hammer and a screwdriver? Not recommended. It was the same brute behavior that destroyed our beautiful french doors, not to mention a mass of carpus bone. Excuses bestow me, I’ve got the devil riding my back. Bastard whom spat inferno upon this last supper; gyoza, miso, edamame. It couldn’t possibly taste the same without my sweetest of friends.
It’s difficult to conceive, all of this gathered time; every transcending moment, every month in laborious passing. And to think, I was completely convinced; assured that the only way I was leaving this apartment was in a body bag. Reputably a shallow promise? Lore has it, the eye of the beholder may prefer his afterlife heated.
Thoroughly surveyed, there was no stone left unturned. An intense obligation made sure of leaving nothing behind, mentally recorded visions in particular. Problem is, those memories could only be played back through the interpreter; and a cabin fevered one at that. In ending, I leave tomorrow. Niche to be no longer, I surrender the unanswered questions. Who have I become? Why did I stay so long? And most importantly, what exactly was it that I was waiting for? As it may, totally unintentional; she never did walk back through that door.
So conclusion avast, the time has come; hoist those three sheets to the wind. Be patient, dear apprentice of the stranded. With mast buried in mud, the capsized view shall be ever so breathtaking.
This false philogynist feels the need to apologize, as for the harlot you’ve been hanging around bores me; but then again, I’m not the one fucking her. Perhaps the heat is causing hallucinations. Rituals of self-doubt require a bit more than just dotting the tees and crossing your eyes. What do I know? I was overly drawn to the one marooned adrift lady heels. Preen to the scene, as her floral skirt always attended the mosh fashionably late and slightly overdressed.
Picture an idea, the one that yearns to be missed; is it impossible to long for what one has never experienced? Predictions and expectations can often appear akin; suppositionally I’ve had my fair share of both. But then came the night God pissed cold rain; and I, baptized in vinegar as she fell just shy of three and a half decades. A debris disposition became as bitter as the pill swallowed; proscribing an entire world and all of its self-righteous preservation. By the same measure, I beseech; mail a post card the day you earn your wings.
Okay killer, victorious as you are; copilots and I; we shall travel the path of least resistance. Endowed with mort-waking engine and thunderbird-like wings, address us horizontally upon our fiberglass corpse. Perhaps there is more to this grease monkey than zippos, balisongs, and an unholy flask vacated by noon. With bohemian nation perched on the sideline, replete in its circle jerk amiss and tattooed bookworms; this convertible continental intends to abscond, rubbernecking credence as it is shrunk by rear-view mirror.