All of the often, the here gone days I want to fall on my sword and say I love you, I love you, I love. But push comes to shove and I have a shit spine. My ID tells me I’m six-foot-two but I’m through with perfecting posture. Can’t stand that tall if I want to. But I’ll stretch out fine in the ground. Cloak and dagger slacker swagger soldier with a certain stagger. I drink to think and carry my sword and walk around in the dark and sink. Oh, Lord, que será sera. Shiraz. Chardonnay. Rinse, repeat with no due pause.
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