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2002-11-01 18:07:26 (UTC)


the perpetual piles of clothing on the couch that were here
when i came contain no articles of mine. how quickly this
house flushes me out. i know i'll return in a few weeks,
perhaps even a month to find that pieces of my wardrobe,
pieces of me, have made their escape out of the wash cycle
and onto that couch.. to be ironed as if someone still
remains to wear them, but eventually, indeed, very soon i
will be filtered out of the system and my existence will be
replaced by a curious absence. the laundry will be put
away to be practically feasted upon by imaginary moths, the
gaps their hungry mouths would leave serving as the only
evidence of time passing.
oh house-not-home, you erase my memory flawlessly, as if
you have done it before. i scorn you for the illusion you
once created. i return now only as a temporary guest and
can observe your deception. poor souls indefinitely
residing within, seeking more than shelter from four
walls. i am sorely grateful for the revelation of this
painful truth, define for me in the hollow light of my now
vagrant lifestyle. that bum once discussed, i have
become. it can't be that hard then can it?
abandon all, despite circumstance good or bad, and stuff 17
years of life more or less into plastic milk crates and
backpacks and situate yourself somewhere - anywhere, it
doesn't matter - and pretend that security can come from a
nomadic existence. watch as your old life forgets you and
your new life rejects you. suffer because you invested so
much in a past and not enough in a future. learn that
smiles and handshakes sending you off or welcoming you in
are only as real as they can be.. and reality of man is
always cheap. and realize that even when your best
potential is met, you are still very much a failure and
life, as we understand it, is still very screwed up.
the day is not what you make of it but what you take of

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