Do you like to hurt? Do you like it when your heart bleeds white and loses all capacity to feel? That you feel so much pain you feel nothing? Every thought drips from your pores, like those beads of sweat collecting at the bottom of your face after you cleave at the clasp with your lover, silently working on until dusky dawn- the sun being as newly born as you; while you lay there in bed, feeling beautiful in the morning and becoming more aware of the foreign parts of your body. You become amazed, awed and aware of your own body as the beads of sweat finish their descent down your wild hair, entangled with the earth- the leaves and the grass. Or maybe it was all a dream and you forgot to wake up sooner than you were supposed to- the heavens are your blanket while the planets keep you company like the stuffed animals you would find in a garage because the owner found them too childish for their own tastes- even though the animals are more saturated with memory than they are. I thought you were carried away on the winds of maybe. Maybe what I know is false- if this is true than it is better to have never known than to know something that is false. Though knowing and believing are two different things. I am taking the one less traveled by, and it is separating me from the other.