sometimes i wish that i understood this hyper reality the way true does, and was cool enough to stand out like a silhouette in a city of shadows, others i wish i had the bukowskian dignity of the pants, but mostly i wish i had myself back, that flakey romantic that wrote so good your pants didn't just drop, they exploded leaving you tangled in my love limbs and juices swimming round your head. and on fridays sometimes something pithy enough that in would atually work on a t-shirt. i love all of you. send her my regrets that i couldn't make it.