I am. The shortest sentence in the English language is also one of the most difficult to understand. I believe her. What can I say? She made me. It is never my fault. I think that our television tastes like chicken. I would believe anything that she told me about now. Undressing for her for the first time in my mind, I begin to limp loosely through a broken moment dialogue with her face on it. The man from Mars has given up on eating cars, but still has a smile on his face when he walks by the junkyard. She could have been a bleach blonde if she were in another chapter. Maybe the last time that you knew her, she was a redhead. Sometimes she would wander by, her hair black as coal. These thoughts are making themselves at home in my mind. The village idiots are going to be mad when they find out that we have stolen their smiles behind the mask.

"Someone hand me a scalpel, I plan to carve my name all over this boy's cerebral. I intend to rub up against it until I break the skin. "

It is of those winter nights that Country~Western love songs are made of, and she is warming her hands on the body of yet another victim. She is waiting for the perfect moment to pack up her lies and run away into the darkness. It is not hard to believe her. She looks convincing. She is dressed for the hunt. Out of nowhere, before the sun kisses open the skies, Death will be following her home. The ghost opens her mouth wide and swallows him whole. She licks the rest of the tears running down her face, as she walks along the dark unpaved road. How old were you when you first realized that you were alone? The fire rolls back a thousand years with its kisses upon the trees and the hallowed ground.

She invites me over for a light dinner of whiskey, whips and chains. Under the influence of euphoria, we danse our way under the new moon and into the tunnel of dreams.

One has to wonder how often the canvas feels the urge to create. How many days a week do the words want to stay in bed and smoke cigarettes? For a text without a direction, there is no lynch mob waiting at the end of a rope, defining an end. Around 1100 B. C. the Phoenicians and other Semitic people began to use graphic signs to represent individual speech sound instead of syllables or words. On one of those days, someone decided to invent the word, and the rest is history.