I'm fighting the evening ritual at the beginning of the day. Spent all night upright without muttering a word. Watched the gears turn the horizons wheels. Jolted my head back and forth in between realities. Saw a man sketching, speaking so little, about nothing with a woman, they had few areas in common. The hair next to me grew thicker by the minute, and much more quiet at every passing hour, I dared not bother her. Saw not my reflection, but reflected on the weekend. Sure, my mind is strong, but is my body weakend? Spoke too many words faster than I could think and, tripped through sentances, stopping to repeat them. Rode into the dawn with my wrist tied in palms. Listened to Joni Mitchell sing like preached psalms. Saturday and Sunday called for more lip balm. Or chap stick for chapped lips, like chop sticks for Asian kids. Thought about conversations the way water seeps into bread. I got soaked up and saturated in my own head. Somehow made due upright in my wicked bed. A loud horn woke me and scared me half to death. And half dead I wandered the chambers of my personal void. I chased down a melody and when I found it struck a chord. The notes shuttered as they rang and stole the clothes off my back. When my body dropped its guard my soul picked up the slack. I was a groovey piece of melon, dripping sweetly across cement. A blue birds worst nightmare, a white crows lament.