it,

feeling was nourished, by the grand illusion, that i was wanted. the pleasure, the derelict tendencies, moments where i sold myself. the dumps in venice, a bunch of cars that move once a week, dodging street cleaning, skating back and forth from curbside to curbside. the driver's hands soaking pretentious bohemian poverty bliss, the last of the mohicans. a bunch of rats with tiny holes to glorify, realize self, seldom few can destroy, even that frail notion. life is um...you know...good but lonely...but good...it lives....doesn't care...but...it's the best we have.