It's a little game I play. I try to hold on to a distraction for as long as possible, so that I can avoid waking up to static.
Someone said I write about Love an awful lot.
Well, love is something I use to ignore myself. But the burden of the poetic aesthetic never ceases to demand my undivided attention. Love is the only thing that keeps me from seeing the world as a sick dog chasing its tail until it collapses and rots in the sun.
On trial, Love is found guilty by Misery.
But without a criminal to condemn, Misery imprisons me.