My core ought to feel like it's pierced by arrows each time you are near. In your eyes I see a forgotten life and feel the vague familiarity of a neighborhood in which I once lived. We are quivering heaps of pent up emotions which we mistake for attraction; desire. The only release is to accept the truth. We hurt each other in the attempt to be compatible; content. Attack. Counterattack. And the reflection bites back. "Don't put your stuff on me." And where are we? Separated today by miles of frustration and a double dose of silence. I cling to the island enchantment creates from chaos. You drift farther away from the unattainable dream. Together we are broken souls loathe to admit we feed off each other's need.
If it don't hurt, it don't matter.
If it makes you cry, you've found paradise.
If … FUCK! It's 8:37.
Chronically laid off, Gary wonders why, despite running circles around his peers in terms of skills/knowledge/grit and The Will to Get the Job Done, his name tends to appear on November riff lists.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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