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if you stare out the window, any window, and let the focus drift from your eyes, there are only colors, shades, and shapes blending, competing, perfecting. nights ago i found the 3:30-4 am terror that accompanies such a hollow half-hour, and nearby mornings i'm waking up with drunken butterflies in my stomach. from wasted eves prior or uncertain days to come, in those starkest moments, there is only the wooden table and a heavy feeling encouraged by the mind, so proud of itself for handling the futility, rolling misery along the tops of it's fingers like that trick with the half-dollar. it begins on skin, sinks into space, rises, shows it's face, heads, tails, falls along the wrinkly bumps travelling to the end, only to begin again. and that's a skillful act to pass the time, but it's neglecting the colors and fuck sight, i'm not talking about sight anymore, the colors and shades and shapes in our blood all ebbing and flowing like the union of two cells or rivers of invisible waves pouring crushing along existence like an eternal flood over a once dry creek bed.