What do I do with you? Its a holographic image I'm trying to scrape off my skin, but a few unsuccessful patches of leather later, I realize that this one shall be a little more indelible than the last. A drunk fucking tattoo one can excuse as a mistake. This one's bigger. A coarse engraving. Interspersed with diamonds. The crudity won't let you rest, the shimmer won't let you get rid of it. So it stays, festering to cancerous proportions. All the issues come tumbling down getting neatly arranged via credit card into lines of grade A cocaine. And how, though crazy and momentary it was, there is no other bliss that would remotely satiate.
All one could have done was to wait for the anomaly to understand and fold. Instead the hand was played and played well. One loses the pot as well as the plot. All that is left are unbreakable anomalous diamond shards spilling over, screaming for release. Redemption. Wine and the harp provide mediocre recourse. Even a catnap revives an astute kaleidoscope of sinking despair. Lack of resentment, overdose of willful melancholia. Unfounded and confounded with a questionable bitterness that is cloaked, misty, seemingly emerging from the shadows every night but still hopelessly elusive beyond reasonable doubt.
Shine on. They say diamonds are forever. One hopes.
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