In the Morning

Hunger cuts your tongue and singes your stride. Hear the rumble of hunger when it suits you least; when it can strangle you most. Wear hunger like a shawl, with its many holes. Let it fall from your fingertips and pick it up a minute later as a forgotten but often necessary object. Accept its sneers. Keep it as one does a secret, most times with impunity. It changes only your color, not your character. Paint it on as such. The function of hunger is only to inform you of what to provide, it has nothing to offer in itself. Hunger is reliable in its torment. Fall asleep and hunger will be there in morning.

On Boredom

Small talk is evil. It is two people who just stop loving each other, which is devastatingly worse than having a legitimate reason. Listless and bored, the invisible hand of intrepidity strangles and suffocates me until I have to shove the conversation into something about which I care. If I wanted to hear about the weather I would have consulted Frost or Thoreau. If I wanted to talk about my clothing I would have discussed the beauty of the human anatomy with da Vinci. But the infinite abyss of unwanted pauses leaves me in a coma void of thought and action. And it's blatant dishonesty. These dusty topics do not interest me.

I would much rather my words be laced with regret. Words erupting as if off of springboards, dead with the mold of too many moments buried inside me. Clipped short with anticipation and curt cynicism. They were frozen and sunken inside my stomach and have been hurled out by my tongue. As soon as they enter the warm air I want them back, but at least I have someone to bounce my ideas off of before they are edited and absorbed.Speaking on top of drawing boards is lovely when it is with you. Our conversations are surgical procedures and I'm scalpel-happy.