Cope, or worst case scenarios that make my head heavy and my eyelids light

I've been fighting this frailty as of late, it feels, morality and mortality intertwined. Missed milligrams always seem to lend to this malady of melodrama so overblown, alliteration be damned. Still, I hear the difference in tenor, a slight tremble, over space and time. Bravado and stubborn pride can only cover so much, and the smallest of cracks can cause the most devastation. It all depends on how sturdy a foundation you're working with. "We built our house with straw, with timber, on the sandy coast; remember us". And the wolf stalks us all and the wind blows (and we all fall down).

The spirit catches and the Spirit catches and the spirit (of ghosts, of memories, of nostalgia, of the wild youth) catches. All of this is to say that while men and women and the inner children of most of us were running in loops up and down and around and around and on the Sound, I'm thinking of the both of you and simple math and the last phone conversation we had. I don't know how to talk about these sort of things. (I can only drunkenly stumble over parchment, butchering the beautiful truth of a blank page, consonants, and the peaceful allocation of spaces). And even then,

May 11, 2010. March 22, 2004. June 3, 2001. October 10, 2005. July 15, 2006.
Frozen, spliced, perverted moments in time. There are train tracks of thoughts constantly colliding, creating atoms of doubt, fear, joy, unfettered chaotic misunderstanding. And this cluster of stations, of passings, blot out the light at the end of the darkest tunnel. Pushed farther in, dumped at the outskirts, they persist, pushing on, punishing any sort of sense and my attempts at sensibilities.

We tip-toe around these gross imperfections in the ovals we masquerade as circles, the Emperor duped out of his very own venn-diagram. ??? ??, ????. Siah's father. And the hushed voices, the questions that I have never asked, the truths that I really don't want to know. And the truths I can't know, will never know. (Ker, I'm so, so sorry). Again, I don't know how to talk about these sort of things. (Do any of us?)

So what remains? Selfish fatigue of the word and the wear of years and the failings of the body and the mind and these people are not our role models and they are not our friends and they are not our failing hereos. They are all of these things. And I'm only now starting to know them as they are or as they might be. So what remains? Hyperbole, a headlong trajectory into... anything, and headlamps. Twelve miles in the dark Friday night chasing ghosts, real or not, and the implications of this. Thirteen and a half today and miles and miles of thinking of anything else and nothing. And talking about anything else. Anything but electrical poles, and alcohol poisoning, and a car wrapped around a tree, and the Sawtooth Mountains, and tsunami's, and raging rivers, and cancer, and cancer, and surgery, and loss (of so many things).

It's Monday here now. By four minutes and counting, it's a new day. Did you feel the pull, the sway, the curvature of this large rock as we move forward? Maybe there's some truth in knowing what we're missing right in front of us. How do we talk about the absences, the imaginary numbers, the illusive fog right in front of us?