3:28am and questions began jump the fence, replacing the answers. only one mantra escapes the pasture: i’m tired i’m tired i’m tired…

don’t look at yourself in the mirror. especially after witnessing a crime. but was it a crime? who was the criminal? the mirror?

the true backlog is a 5-gallon jug of tears. but why 5? maybe grief is a standard unit. scheduled. delivered.

hello. or not. it’s one thing to make room in the mind but another for it to be pre-purchased, decorated before birth and occupied by someone content to watch from the shadows.

sometimes i sit next to him and close my eyes without saying a word. we speak a kindred language in that gray space and it’s always tinged with peace and salts of sadness. it’s purgatory or what my friends call dharma.

a six ounce glass floats above the mirror as five gallons break.