Icarus's blog: "Hope- by any other name."

It's not to anyone.
It's not for anyone.
It's not about anyone.

Strange is this the opposite?
I put brush to paper with the faint bubbling wetness of the ink.
Thom's in background, his still creepy eye wobbling and weaving as the lines dance and dry, curling the paper in puckered places.

I'd like to think sketch mimicks rhythm- but its just a crazy whim flitting at the points of my fingers.
If you could do something like love out of habbit... this might be the same.
There's nothing here. No image, no symbol, no grief.

So it fell in a crumpled aborted heap
next to a genocide confetti armada

I remember the serene drop I felt in my stomach, the last time I felt
...
anything really.
Everything since has been a counterfeit of that counterfeit.
Scan of a scan.
Dream in a mirage.

A shade can smile, but he can't feel.
Perhaps losing the ability to fool myself was my punishment for reaching.
But in the process, I learned every mask and misdirect I needed.

When you wish for power, you don't wish for the sanity to keep in check.
Love- you don't wish for comet insurance.

When you wish to be real... you forget to specify to who.

Bubble bursts, and I'm in the unpleasant hum of household.
No one asking me to bed, no fourth hand in the tub
and all I know is to miss these things-
not why.