Procrastination is something I never put off.  I relentlessly trade constructively-used time for moments stretched out like caramel, rolled out like dough.  Moments so elusive you can hardly get at them.  Moments forgotten like cheap drug-store sunglasses left in the rubbery crease of a diner booth.

A swashbuckling silhouette of my Self tells phantom tales in a tongue that gives gold to the language, a tongue that shaves away at my thick demons as if they were ice sculptures.

Daydreams, nightdreams, little tiny miniature nervous breakdowns.  Evening settles like scorched iron beneath lithium stars as I eat chicken wings that are so lousy it’s hard to believe this person bothered to open his own restaurant.  I dream of oysters and salt-air, and have neither.  Somewhere there are promises being made, sappy gloppy promises that (let’s face it) will be ruptured like a swollen tick between forefinger and thumb.  I will sit still and dream of escaping the tendonitis of winter.

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