Everything ramping up. 3,500 creative words a week, the winds demand no less. Disillusioned dads in the gymnasium telling me that I'm an animal with audacity in their eyes. Inept kids I run into with the same dream that's bled from my ears since my spine aligned . . .
It's all monastic and joyful suffering from here until someone finally embraces me to a stop . . . an infidel in cathedrals, the clearest of inkblots. I'm from the City that converts cops to crooks and trails blood into the future like a fugitive . . I've got game that no one but Guerillas has got.
Looks like it will be incommunicado; fine with me except the Ecstasy's made me believe in nothing but this second. So sometimes the past feels yawning and empty, my passion spontaneous and breathless. There was a night when I must have made this seem effortless and convinced that my extremities were endless or my life was raveled tight and I'd spun it unreckless.
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