2003-01-13 | flying back to the bar...........

Everything is quiet when I write, except my hand. It's useless without my fire, like glass without sand. I can be so upset, and still write a beautiful peice...I can be happy as a clam, and write about hate and deceit. Mostly I just say what the hand tells me to...Mostly when I write it's about me and you. Whoever you may be, depends on the moment. It's usually my love, when she's gone my hand's swollen. When I cry the pen leaks all over the page. When I finally reach the bottom, it helps disguise all my rage

- premature ejaculation | tantra +