Couch man

How can you sit there so sludgently sit there on the notion that tomorrow: there may be no seductive explosion of the sun though the defining shade of black, no gentle consumption of the wind, or soft applause of the leaves, no feeling the reflective warmth found in another body, and when death is standing there with a smile on his face, two smoking revolvers, and a never break comb in his back pocket, speaking of floating regrets that never sink and runaway dreams that never come back, you still would sit there lacking urge to create or exist, and a trail of drool flaking from the corner of your lip. Written March 14th, 2002 © on Mar 14 2002 06:11 AM PST   0 • 9