On this higher-than, sweet-as-sugar, utter, gutter solitude – once in the company of a tattooed woman, injected with Television-christened attitude.
She brought the tits and the wits, and I brought the brooding. But tonight, cool and balmy evening, welcomes me home.
Key-in-lock safe house.
Brain-off, turn-on, hoping there’s a movie camera just around the corner of the hallway.

“I would like to be able to really talk to you – my honesty bellows out like a gaping sore. You are beautiful, and I am a constant confusion to myself.”

Suddenly, the chemicals in your brain begin to agree with the rest of you – And there are flashes of light to accompany this serentity. The music gets turned on, and so do you; as casually beatiful, and moreso, nude women appear out of thin air.
The cozy room; comfortably warm, and stocked with all your favorite books, could easily be floating on its own planet – but it is indeed a part of the same world, sharing the continuity with those ol’ bloodshot days, ripe with physical tension, and verbal accusations, cutting like shrapnel – like, if you breathed in the wrong direction, you were thought to be trying to steal The Others’ oxygen.
You take nothing but the brunt of their pain and weakness, and throw it away like a parking ticket. Finally free, you are. And like THAT, your life begins. Or begins again.
Blemish-free,you answer to nothing, and no one. While it’s true that no one owes you anything, you, in turn, owe them no explaination. You are off the grid, and they are in the skids.
If all their hatred and paranoia were not thrust toward you, and they actually had to turn it inward, they would have broken – shattered like a crazy-glued vase. but YOU – you took the bile – the bad stuff. Their stuff. You ate your vegtables, and now you’re strong.

‘Seems like they wanna put an end to this mighty bohemianism. ‘Till then, bleed it dry.

-Michael Phelan O’Toole

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