i'm heading to the benches where you'll stare at me with your drunken eyes, tell me your stories, shed not a single lie. your eyes all puffy, drowned in tears, you'll say you miss your wife, you miss your life. you said you were a writer, and have never met anyone any sober, than yourself, other than yourself. your tales, so interesting, like a story i've read. but it was twenty years ago, the day dated today. the bench was cold, you light your cigarette, across your porch was a dream i've seen, i've dreamt, i've believed. your voice fimiliar twenty years ago, but the habbits do not match. your wife you said was a woman you've never married, but hoped to love. you were living in a den of thieves, rummaging for answers in the pages. so you wore your scarve just like a noose, but not because you want eternal sleep. and though our parts are slightly used, new ones are slave labor you can keep. round each corner there's a chance people searching glance to glance. they're moving about real fast like insects and fish when they're scared. they'll sing the same old song though it's been so very long; they'd sing, raindrops falling on my head, but that doesn't mean that i am dead. so we stood, your legs they said, felt even better when the sticks you've hold were the only soul you have been living with for the past twenty years, and i said. twenty back calenders read, you played music on the bed, you made history with scissors, i've dread. i was the wife you longed to love twenty years back then. stop wasting time, letting your paper drink your ink... right, so that's about it, shall write a new prose soon. now i am totally blank with ideas and my neck hurts so much since morning & i really need a good massage. Elle & Vire's Crèmes Dessert is my current sexy addiction. they bring tasty to a whole new level.
peace, and live high.

HAPPY SEVENTEENTH MY BELOVED LARLANA