This is the time of night where the emptiness sets in the worst.
No one to call, bad news on the air, and no one to fuck sweetly
with the rapidity and monotony of machine gun fire.
I think about Matt when I write that line, how wonderful I imagine his life is.
Handsome bastard, well educated, married to a goddess I had more than one sex dream about...
But I often wonder if he's happy, or slowly going mad.
His poetry is hilarious, so is his situation.
All the gold in the world, when all he wanted was paper.
I look at my own life, my own world, and wonder if I'll spiral into that same serendipitously sterile insanity.
That idle hand pondering a globe of perfection.
Will I ever be happy?
I hope I never find out.
