It was a long fever, the kind that left you incapacitated & vulnerable to your dreams, & exhausted and emotionally wrecked when you woke for water to keep the body going.

The bones hurt, and the floorboards hurt, but the body isn't ill.

It's the same sickness. The weave of romance & existentialism. What is real, and what, is merely a body for our desires?


So many self-caught, anxious, yet wonderful, loveable souls. You can't really help a boy through his hang-ups. They're his alone to deal with. It's his journey. He's underground, in his strange tunnels with bad reception & poor lighting, and you're on your many divergent roads.

Meet me in Paris; in Montreal, in New York.

Meet me somewhere warm, or in a summertime wine bar. 
I'll wear my hair down, read poetry by the window. I write my heart, in the borders, in ink. I keep my poems company.

Stranger, lover, I've been waiting for you, my whole life, & I think it's all missed connections.
I think we must be wandering the same streets, the same bookstores, the same markets & coffee shops, just at different times, different days. We must've passed each other by, so many times, caught up in our lives, our jobs, our friends & families. I am waiting and waiting, but there is no destination, no meeting point.

Our universe shifts, and it's all timing. Maybe our 'verses will split, and we'll never find each other. Dante had his Beatrice, I just have a feeling.