Dear Bottomless Pit,

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The illusion of sanity. Boy, what I would give to hold my heart out in front of me. To polish my shoes with the oil on my face. If I could have one thing, and one thing only, it would be the clock to all life's end. They couldn't bare to hear my foolishness, as so it seemed, but when the time came, I would know if they cared, or if they screamed. When I would prepare for the day, I'd always ask myself the most absurdist of questions. The answer was always there, and it never left. What a reminder it was to see the old faces taking everything in stride. If the doorbell rings, it's a short breath before I remember why I ever began drinking. Shit, to pray then was to accumulate all that made you feel safe. The thought was unbearable, I thought. Not once had I ever choked on the sigh of relief whenever I knew my name had been spoken. Somewhere, at sometimes, was the ability to gather compassion, with or without knowing it was copacetic. What a joke. Sharp was the attention span I had for unwanted bullshit. Every once in a while, it was something different to talk about. The times I had wished I could pause time, the times I wished it was necessary, was all in hopes that someone could notice. I thought I knew direction, but regardless what the paper said, I wanted to pick up my gun and run. The illusion of sanity steers clear. Boy, what I would do to know if everything was worth anything at all. The only time I cry anymore is when I indulge in the fulfillment of the idea that each passing moment and or thought, often provoked, is a gift that I give to myself. Only when I'm drunk can I provoke. The sound is something unclear to me. If only I could caress the face of every dead child with a grin, the clock would never tick again.