Que?

The contour lines across my face, as though where my wrinkles should be and have been for years before disappear like smoke dispersing through the air.  And I love her, or at least I needed to believe that.  Those feelings of loneliness rattled through my body, disguising my pain and sorrow from my mind and leaving it but upon my face.  I seem to have aged an eternity in a matter of seconds, all it ever took was a no.  The rejection from another as you were then whisked away into the oblivion of someone else's subconscious.  Never more would I ever be on the forefront of their mind, now tucked away, forgotten like the days of school.  Now with only the fowl odor of scotch resting on my breath did I know what life had in store for me: despair and depression.  The childhood dreams I had once hoped would lead myself to a world of glamor and fame now lay at my feet surrounded in a pool of its own blood.  There is no way to write a Basquiat or Pollock painting, they are ones to be seen by the eyes and not read. 

I lay back, an obscure boot acted as my pillow.  The life of an epileptic, nothing more than that of an AIDS victim or cancer patient.  The crippling illness of pondering whether to accept the invitation from a certain brotherhood, which shall remain nameless, or not. 

Permanent erections, what a dreadful concept.  Though on women, that could pose such questions such as; why must I be a misogynist or why must I lead myself into the paths of women to which I know will only steer me wrong.

A fan made of only human hands.  Not one which spins round keeping you cool, but one which adores you for your work in the general arts.     

One liners, my nose feels constricted as we speak.

The worst way to die would have to be that of a sexual nature.  Dying during your partners orgasm.  Dying during your own would be the utmost peaceful way to go.  Experience enlightenment in two different ways.  No need for the shame of after sex.  But if it was of your partners orgasm, especially male if you happen to be female; because you probably haven't gotten off, it's been about five minutes, there really wasn't any foreplay.  It just sounds as though death would be better served during an orgasm of your own rather than any other way to go.

I play an A, you heard a B.  Words strung together opposed to colours splashed upon a canvas, or the complex melodies of a piano hitting the strings of your inner ears.  Though concentration may be found in ways of the imagination and creation rather than pondering the questions of space and visible time.