The snow on the ground is melting and the rain is falling steadily. The mist hanging over the city blurs the lights from cars on the street and from the streetlamps that stand, immovable, and watch them pass by. You're now so far away that i can hardly see your fragile shape, melting in the rain and the midst, trudging through puddles and over patches of wet ice in the damp cold. When you were closer I saw your proud march, all righteous anger and reinforced resolve marred by these patches of ice. The streets will side with neither of us, and so you slipped, softening your steely march, but as you get further away from me, as you disappear into the growing darkness and the fog and the blur of lights, as you walk to the metro from here, as i know more and more that it will be the last time, your pace is steadied and your resolve strengthened as the sidewalk seems to bend to your will. 

You haven't slipped on in the last 50 metres and soon you will be gone, leaving me to stare into the empty mist, my eyes growing bleary. 

we don't speak anymore. It's not the result of some explosion of hostility or of a physical sepeareation, we have yet to part, you are still with me when i wake, our paths cross in the bathroom, wrapped in towels to keep away the cold that is between us, even as our brief exchanges of hand signals and grunts become drier...

But there is a canyon in our interactions, a widening, deepening trench seperating us, the only sound that of tapwater filling it, rushing through the chasm between us. 

can't get the words out, can't get the words out, if i have to cut out my tongue i swear i'll say it. 

the frost has come

glazing the familiar landscape with white

white on the green-brown grass, matted by your footsteps

white on the dirt, where the grass is already torn

thin sheets of ice snap as you step up the path,

across the torn up lawn, to a familiar scene

you, standing across from me

biting your lips, glancing side to side

anything to avoid my eyes

i love autumn, the sight of bare trees, watching children fall into piles of leaves

but there's a taste this morning, lingering in the air

i taste winter

postcards.

the sentiment is lost when you don't pay your 75 cents. 

 an indeterminately large number of my thoughts, regardless of the part of you wherein they originate, veer wildly off course and, losing all direction, drive onwards only to the past, to little things. a silent look, a sour face, a motion of your hands that fuse together in my mind into a web of lies and hurt, of thoughtless words.

i spin this web out of you. 

i spin this web out of you, no doubt, in the hope that it will catch me when i fall, or that i will be too tangled up in it to be pushed of that cliff but it's sticky and overbearingly hot and increasingly uncomfortable and so today i hace decided to brush it out of the dusty recesses of my mind. 

my favourite seasons are for wearing pants and jackets, and walking on dry leaves.

zoning kills

a skyline created on the cheap, to fill low-rent land that should be at a premium, with an utter disregard for aesthetics. 

organic growth is unatainable in ex-urban developments, because auto culture requires that people who live in them will, by default, be ready to commute for employment, shopping, etc... 

by the time the new area has the population to support business, it's already been developped in a form that leaves no space for the proper integration of mixed uses. 

relics.

a hundred voices but they're all the same, one mess of thoughts and feelings. filter them out? i wish i could but i'm losing myself in them right now and i don't expect to break free, but that's all i want in the end anyhow, to melt into the blur of my surroundings, to be without any conscienceness of worry or doubt, of security. 

constancy. 

the edge, the extreme? they've wearied me and worn away my will. 

discomfort rests just beneath my stomach, but it has all of me under control. 

speedballs

i'll trade your champagne for my cocaine.

but you can keep the redbull and I'll just sink