Excuse me as I exercise my right to write and prelude the disaster I often avoid; this detour gets long, so hop in the back and try not to get distracted. It might be best if you don't pay attention to my driving. Civily I bestow to you my anger--not anger--my disgust--no, it's not that either--it's a sickened surprise to see you, to find you, to know that you're there. I can't bring myself to crumple up the rough drafts and toss them out; something inside me still likes them, somehow they're still pretty, in some way they still sound good. But no, they're crap, they're trouble, they end sad. The epilogues include death. I've condemed my mind to think this way; I applaud your bravery. Now take you medal and then your exit. For once, I don't think I want you to see this and understand. Even in some secret message, some black and white text, no, stop reading, I'm not speaking to you, you're gone, I've moved on, so this is tomorrow that feels like today and this is the promise and this is the way of how it's supposed to be. Please don't misconstrew the meaning of something that means nothing. I was a critic when I wrote this and the public always hates a critic; it's so critical of them. Never again, never again, never again fall victim to the lure of a few good words. Too much of that perfection will result in stomach ache and the medicine I've found is taken thrice a day, capped and bottled and labeled reality. My foe, my enemy, my hate, how often must you find me? I guess, for now, we're okay. Tomorrow might be different; it always is.