Oh wild January, you are always so unpredictable. Maybe I have unsettled love for the west. A once ridden passion washed out by the waves of those around us. It's always the bandits who put the fire out. They see a good thing and burn it farther into the ground then where it started.
I've been falling out of the week. Saturday means Monday and Wednesday's look like Tuesday's. I've been thinking of spending time in my lover's house. Just to write, just to see. Perhaps he'll write too, perhaps he already does. The morning you wake up and realize you're going to go after what you want is not Saturday or Wednesday's Tuesday. Drive to Venice, get drunk on the beach. Find a Motel and build a fort out of sheets.