where the writers are


The pressure is on, the noises are gone, the suspension is off and dying for anchor.  Fussy filthy jealousy scanter ‘cross the highways and interstates, hot engine breath, grinding rotors, not less pass the get away, a treasury place, a hole in the ground, cold enough to freeze a living body dead. 

During investigation, the cement sidewalk cracks were yet the only lead.  The treasure, yes.

My insides shake, and i can’t take in food or water.  The hair on top my head is thinning, I became pregnant but miscarried.  

Along the meadows while traveling, nothing really changed, except the shapes of cows.  Some left dead.  Some horses, lambs.  Everybody lived somewhere it seemed, even if it was in the middle of nowhere.  


Along the meadows distance changed the light, shadows cast, I went crashing up into the sky, it tangled me and pounded my face into the ground, where I stood before some fresh idle eye, where I couldn’t stare the idle eye in the eye.

I couldn’t let down my guard.  I suppose I’m grabbing at smooth stones and they are slipping out of my hands, forgetting where I came from I re-run the past, and nothing comes up.  Was I 10?

I know now what’s happen.

Up to this point I delve into some things.  Went ‘round and around.  Shoveled up Dog shit.  Listen, I’ll tell you things, things you don’t know about yourself.  It’s strange I tell ‘ya.  I’m listening to Tears For Fears, reminiscing.