#1

(Initially penned 14th January, 2006. 06.33am )

Because you're my American dream -- Where Plath crosses Falstaff.
Falstaff, not totally Shakespearean but the operatic take on it. Maybe already presumptious in its art form.

I pen this in the lukewarm coming of a new day. The break of dawn makes this all more comforting -- the possible (impossible) beacon of hope, embracing, suffocating you in both mercy and pity. It was pitch dark the quadruple 60-minute lapses, hour after hour of chestnut brown blending into a dark green Parker grandeur. It kills to figure my self-dictated perceptions are the only things that differentiate a demonic pitch-black from a towards our new found promised land pitch-black. It terrifies me, perhaps it is all of the mind -- its workings, or malfunctions, sometimes perhaps just simplistic among its unnecessary complications.