re-peat

there are certain things i don't allow myself in this overfree, unadorned life like
calling you when i've promised myself i won't, or writing on the empty cardboard toilet paper roll in sharpie "you're fucked now" when i've just used up the last of it in a public stall.

these things define this evening, where i break other promises (no smoking!), don't drink on work nights, don't spend all your tip money the day you get it...5 dollar wine. quit wishing for phone calls, know that you are who you want to be.

rambles in anonymous wireless, faltering beta, wanton disregard: exhibitions that come tumbling all ass over end into a new distillation. you pixillate through my head regarded highly as static, as foreground, mortar. serf, surf, surf. work play crash a shoreline distinctly overwhelmed. peat.