Trampoline Breath

“But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the
common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?”
- Mark Twain

I just really want to know why, why is it that beer tastes so good after not drinking it for several days? Is it the creamy hops? The delicious bacterium? The branding? What is it… I suppose that since I don’t find myself drinking alone, that it’s the social aspect that catches me most. But who but I, chooses to drink and study on a Friday evening? Tsk Tsk..

“You look ridiculous in that make-up.
Like the caricature of a whore…”
- Marlon Brando – Ultimo Tango a Parigi

It’s been a busy week filled with memorization, math, arias, graphs, adenosine triphosphate, and the absence of sleep. I’ve had this awkward headache though, touching ever so delicately below my occipital lobe, sprawling across the right temporal and into my eye. I guess it’s all this wild information being stored between my neural junctions. Or it could be terminal death knocking at my window. In either case, time for another beer!

“Don’t turn my voice into an instrument of death.”
- Ferinelli from Ferinelli (1994)

But who could I kid, I’m too tired to drink, I need to find a #%$& dealer, my eyes won’t shut, and myspace keeps wanting me to check out their cool shit. Like I care. I’m a facebooker, in fact, everyone pretty much is these days. Funny thing though, I actually went to my old MS account and found loads of ancient emails from past lovers, friends, and old friends…some of whom I may never meet again.

Rereading them in my office (after hours of course), I am reminded of that deep sense of digital emptiness, the plastic skin of another man I once was and perhaps still am. I am reminded of the everlasting entity known as: Myspace…deadspace.

Sitting, waiting for the time to pass…clawing at the clock like it was just another dream-object. Sleepless nights, hold me tight, there is only a window above my head that lets the moon fall through, shallow shades of thick shapes, moving me from one scene to the next, one image event to the next, one rope and on to another, through the forest and into a dark, damp night.