Tonight, Tonight

I saw things that I shouldn't have in those words, in that conversation we shouldn't have had.

I saw things that I shouldn't have in your eyes, in those lies, in that name.

I'm falling faster and faster, into that spiral we call oblivion, love, and what remains in this city of dust and dying dreams.

Flesh and bone remain on pavement are the only things left to catch me.
It's too late.

Taxi Cab the Rubber Dog

Merry Christmas.
Happy Birthday.
Congratulations on your engagement.
Happy New Year!
What's next in line but another funeral, a wedding, a box of cookies and French toast?

We practiced our ghosts last night, decanting wishes of a insalubrious wish for sanity – paper hats and paper cranes made my paper planes feel pathetic. The wish for something more than aesthetic ruined plans, the wish for something more plastic ruined hearts. There were no friends, no foe. Only family, and where there is family, there is love.

Merry Christmas – or whatever you happen to be celebrating on this day.
I suppose I hold no right to say such, as I do not celebrate Christmas. No, this time of year I celebrate family. Family – and how much we care (when we really don't any other time of the year).

Hours of TAI TV Has Fried My Remaining Brain Cells

I have a newfound love for William Beckett and his ridiculous hipbones (but not really).
I might just absolutely adore Ryland Blackinton when he is Guy Ripley (but I don't).
Perhaps I should question the credibility of Sisky Biz Bass Wiz (but I never will).

So instead, I'll ask this:

How the fuck did William get the nickname Bilvy? 

It Was The Trumpets, The Radiator, And More

Here's a hint – Jesus in the name of Rock N' Roll singing charity singles and dancing in the ceiling tiles for the mystics down by the river.

He never liked my name; he never liked my clothes. I didn't pay much attention to the potential, to the impotence, to the lies and the liars and the world where he lay to sleep.

No sense of danger, of impending doom.

Just one more night with my savior, before he left for work again.

And here I was, climbing into William Beckett's bedroom window hopped up on caffeine pills.

After the After Party

Look, see, say "Why defend him?" The boy in the dress, the boy in the spotlight, the boy with his head between his legs and his eyes cast to the world -- the world was waiting. I held my breath and wished for a moment when the world turned away, and nobody stared. Why defend him, the one who could only afford to defend himself? It was all he had, his built up wall of insecurities and messed up paradise for his insatiable needs and whiny laughter.

Why defend him?

When the dream is over, wake up and take it day by day. We live, we laugh, we lie and keep on moving like we never saw him.
One more face, one more smile, one more facsimile for the torrential downpour of words that should've hurt him far more than it did.

I pretend – I never said those words. We never took those pills.

We never drank at the party; tastes as good as grape vodka and root beer in a crystal glass.

Why defend him?
He was Plan Z.