i've learned to practice this one type of patience, the only thing keeping me out of a straightjacket. to the next one to ask me how i'm doing, i hope i have the strength to say the following. i miss the feeling of agreeing on anything, of hearing that's what i've been thinking a lot about lately. these past weeks have been defined by trying to see how light i can tread on the thorny earth beneath my feet and read subtle messages i've picked up from those candid expressions i've learned to decode. i've flipped through the pages of jotted-down awkward silences. i can't act on what i know. the feeling of having no idea where this evening is going at all. the last living relic of a past replete with pain, the only promise of a future so tempting to call off. surrounded and distances, cut up and coherent, like speed and heroin. mix a depressant in with a stimulant. i would give anything to feel nervous or confused again, but i've heard out all the swirling voices and singled out one of them: a tired conversation i have had before. i don't want to talk about it all anymore. and as life slips from me i hope you find out how to be happy finally. the feeling of having no idea where this lifetime is going at all. the laughable sentiment of a maladjusted kid, or the only outlook possible? to the next one to ask me how i'm doing, i hope i have the strength to say it will get worse if you keep asking. no one could crop me out of a photograph of failure. the colors fade. the outlines smudge and there is nothing. i see outpourings of honesty conflicting. i see us when we were young, smiling.