the wackness

Just now the sprinkler system outside of my apartment turned on. As I hear the hushed hiss of the sprinkles emerging from within the ground with a trickle of water I look to the couch cushion of my right. The faint noise sounds like casey's breathing-the heavy breathing that accompanies a deep cat sleep and coincides old age. I am disappointed not to see her curled up in a ball onto of my sweatshirt within a arms length form where I'm sitting. Although part of me knows she's not there.

Then I think to myself, how did it get to this place?

I understand it more than I did then but that doesn't make it any easier.

Perhaps it makes it worse.

ummm insert something one part lowkey mellowdramatic two part faux-existentialist drabble and serve over ice topped with an umbrella


Can I come home now?
Come home into your arms, and when I say your arms, I mean your arms in that place I've called home but 'love can't live here anymore'
right now
ever
ever again
In the meanwhile I'm crash at a few friends places until tensions grow and my stay becomes unwelcome and occupy foreign hotels where the synthetic linens scrape and pull at my body until I can come back to home if it's meant that I do, I know that's some overused shit to say and I don't know if I can allow myself to truly believe it anymore, but I'm stubborn and will continue to put 'your arms' into google maps and follow the starting point to my destination


I was born in the wrong decade bluhhhhh cliche blog slap, the imagery just seemed applicable hah:

These Arms Of Mine (Single/ LP Version) - Otis Redding