My nihilistic-manic/depressive-friend, the one that brought
punk and counter-culture to cows and corn, now has dependents, files taxes, works at Pac-Sun.
Nothing is unrelative.
My aunt is stabbed by her progeny, the same genes awaiting me (perhaps).
Nothing is ever Certain.
Forward the dragoon, through the abyss, treading water, keeping up, moving along. The image of my Psyche as an encapsulated ticking time bomb ebbs and flows along the surface of a world that was not built for me.
Nothing stops the irresolute march of time
Get Normal or Get Drunk
I’ll take the drink every time.