Original subtitles

The poet doesn't invent.

He listens.

This is going to be the greatest book ever written.

Yeah, I know, I'm flying high right now. And when I see this straight, it'll

probably be an incoherent mess of scratches and scribbles.

Isn't that what life is?

It's all subjective, of course, and this subject has been sucking the glass cock

forever and is probably incompetent to stand trial.

But everything really happened.

I witnessed that the details may be fuzzy and the chronology controlled by

the methamphetamine, but the shards of truth are all there, stabbing away at

what is left of my brain, turning it into something else.

I could still see your face over my shoulder and you were smiling.

You weren't scared to show me how you felt.

I want to play it over and over again.

I'm just going to keep going.

And I'm going to start over.

But if I screw up, I'm just going to keep going.

Life and all that other bullshit doesn't matter.

It's just the stuff that gets in the way between parties.

Because there is no afterwards.

The party must never stop.

I'll do anything to keep it going.

Sex with strangers who have more.

Sex for money to get more.

Steal money.

Steal drugs.

Sell drugs.

Whatever it takes not to have a stop.

The feeling is just too good to let it go away.

Drew was from Waterville, Maine.

For some reason, there is a big Lebanese population there. He tried to explain

why to me, but either he didn't really know or I stopped listening.

Maybe something about Waterville being the furthest possible place from Beirut.

Growing up here, I had no idea I was missing anything.

I was isolated.

Insulated from the rest of the world.

I went to school, had a part-time job.

Went to church every Sunday.

And spent lots of time with my family.

I had friends.

The occasional girlfriend.

We'd go fishing, mudding, hunting, or just driving around in our cars.

I was a good enough kid until I graduated high school.

Then I started hanging around a different crowd.

Getting drunk.

Sneaking into bars.

Picking out men at rest stops and porn bookstores.

I would let men do things to me.

Frankly, because I didn't know what I was doing.

But I learned fast.

I was always safe about it. I knew that much.

Being safe allowed me some distance.

Some control.

Then, I started experimenting with drugs.

My first time doing Tina was completely unplanned. And unexpected.

I invited this boy, Wes.

He arrived carrying a small bag with all of his...

Goodies. He promised me it would be safe and would make the sex amazing.

I was worried about having unprotected sex, though, as I had heard all about

losing inhibitions, which, if I'm totally honest, kind of turned me on.

But he assured me I had nothing to worry about.

We used a condom both times we had sex that night, and he was right.

It was amazing.

The next time was at a party.

Surrounded by a group of hot boys, I acted like I'd never done it before.

I let them hold a lighter, and my hand burned.

They walked me through it step by step.

It was then that I lost my ambitions.

Like a kid running out into traffic after a ball.

I didn't give a shit about safety.

When a truck slammed into me, it felt like the world lifting off my shoulders.

I was flying, and once you reach the sky, You don't ever want to leave.

It's all downhill from there.

Honestly, I don't know when I became positive.

I mean, I suspect it was when I was at a party, someone put something in my

drink, and I woke up a day later after having been fucked by God knows how many

guys. But I really don't know for sure.

It doesn't really matter.

I can't blame anyone but myself.

It was inevitable.

It's done.

When I first met Christian, he was in Maine doing summer stock.

He was the first real love affair I had, back when love meant something.

We were both safe only, disease and drug free.

Although, if we looked in each other's eyes too closely for too long, we could

see a very different future in store for both of us.

Before he left to go off on tour somewhere else, He encouraged me to

pursue my dreams.

He was just a kid when he moved to New York in the early 80s.

Then everyone around him, lovers, friends, acquaintances, started getting

sick and dying.

He always thought he would be next, but somehow he survived again and again.

Survival is exhausting.

You can only live in fear for so long before you become a zombie.

There is only one escape.

Throwing oneself,

Okay,

we should have the results in 20 minutes, so if you

want to go take a walk, relax, come back and they'll call

you and the results are here.

Hi.

Gas, headache, trouble sleeping, abdominal pain, neuropathy,

pancreatitis, rash and skin darkening, problems or sores, numbness, tingling or

burning in this medication, fatigue, dizziness, peripheral neuropathy, chills

and fever, decreased fat in the arms and legs, depression, weakness, muscle,

loss of appetite, weight loss. This medication may cause an increase in

blood pressure, severe stomach pain, yellowing of skin and fresh eyes.

Symptoms of serious allergic reaction may include rash, itching, swelling,

especially the face, tongue, throat, trouble breathing, slow, fast, irregular

heartbeat, death.

This is not a complete list of possible side effects. If you notice other

effects, contact your doctor or pharmacist.

Rob was the opposite of Christian.

He didn't have a job or a place to live.

No ambition.

He lived in the moment.

Enjoying life without too many worries.

Whatever happens, happens.

And a lot of fucked up things did happen.

But if nothing affects you, it's hard to feel anything.

I wanna fuck you raw.

Uh-huh.

I wanna be the first one in that ass bareback.

You're not the first.

The core is fucking slow.

Come more pig.

As you like that.

Fuck yeah.

I wanna be your first something.

You ever slam?

Uh-uh.

Well, good.

I guess I'll...

I'll pop your slam cherry.

Take

me

to hell.

abscess in my left arm.

I have no idea.

I obviously have an issue.

I don't remember a specific event that would have caused that.

I don't remember there being a specific event that would have caused this.

You know what I mean? Like, I don't remember anything going wrong, I don't

remember cutting my arm open, I don't remember any of that stuff.

I woke up today, my arm kind of hurt, and then started to swell.

It went out into the cold, and it really swelled, and then it started to hurt.

Now, I went home, put a bunch of cold compresses on it, hot compresses on it,

and then it's back to normal.

Yeah. Yeah, I don't... Everybody said this is a little strange. I must have

had a scratch somewhere and not noticed it.

Oh, my God.

That's right. I never even thought about that.

But it's all better now.

Yeah.

I might come down to do this.

Maybe.

Well, what is it?

Christmas?

I lost you, Andy.

No, I'm not saying anything. It was great. I lost you, so I'm just saying.

It's amazing how logic shifts.

Most days I couldn't be bothered to leave the house or go to the gym.

But a party in New York?

Five hours away by car at some stranger's apartment?

Hell, I'll drop everything.

Disappear for days.

Weeks. Forever.

It wasn't unusual for people to come and go.

You never really knew where they went.

To get clean?

To some other party somewhere else?

To jail or the hospital?

They would always come back. Well, unless they died. But it didn't really

matter. There was always someone new.

And once you've shared clouds with someone, there is a connection. Like

fucking someone's brain.

Names didn't matter.

Jobs, if you had one, were just something you did to make money to get

more drugs.

Family, friends, distractions, annoyances. Oh, hello, it's you here.

You know the drill.

Take it off.

They called her Mistress Fatina.

Nobody knew or cared to know her real name or where she came from.

She would talk about being a corporate lawyer or a venture capitalist.

And then about traveling to the center of the earth or beaming out to space

from giant antennas and getting drugs from aliens.

No one cared where they came from. The supplies were endless.

I want to go across those damn bridges.

Those damn bridges, like Williamsburg Bridge is one bit.

Big, big antenna.

Who knew what was real and what was delusions? And more importantly, who

cares? When you're high, it's all real and unreal at once.

She just loved having naked boys around.

And you could stay as long as you wanted.

Become part of the furniture.

Who are you?

I'm Robbie Lauper. Oh, hi, Butch. Take your clothes off and put them in here.

Yes, ma'am.

As long as you didn't have butts.

I don't want any bedbugs in here.

Excuse me? She was obsessed with bedbugs.

Or you weren't an alien reptile.

Pretty reasonable request for a drug deal.

You didn't have any money?

She would recruit you.

To go out and sell for it.

Because she never left.

Butch was always good for a fuck.

The thing is, when you're high, you can never come.

Which is both exhilarating and frustrating.

It's like you are constantly on the edge of coming and you want to fuck

everything in sight.

What are you doing?

Writing a book.

About what?

About this.

Christian was always worried someone would recognize him.

No one ever did.

In his drug-addled fantasy, he was a famous actor.

In reality, he had been a chorus boy on a few long-ago closed and forgotten

Broadway shows.

He did some guest spots on sitcoms.

always as some swishy queen, and voiceovers on some endlessly annoying

car insurance commercials.

I started hustling to make money.

Butch introduced me to porn.

All you need to do is one movie, and then you're a porn star, and the price

goes up.

So I guess I did become someone after all.

But it wasn't me. I was a porn star.

The guy who would do anything.

The raunchier, the better.

They loved him.

But not me.

I felt like an outlaw.

Like, before being gay became all mainstream.

Before gay became so fucking boring.

Getting married.

Having kids.

Being in the military.

Back when they would have anonymous sex in late night parks.

In dark restrooms and trucks.

There was a danger.

There was an excitement.

Yeah, I know.

Full of self-loathing and internalized homophobia.

But it's bullshit trying to fit in to copy straight bourgeoisie culture.

That is self-loathing. That is homophobia.

We are animals.

We're the new sexual outlaws.

The knowing looks.

The codes.

The secrets.

The only difference is now, it's all about the drugs.

Not the sex.

Hey.

You wanna slam?

You wanna fuck him?

He's totally fucked up.

We've been fucking him all afternoon.

He's so fucked up.

There is no real night.

It's always night.

What's behind you?

I can

control it.

You keep telling yourself that lie, but it's impossible.

It will keep chipping away, changing the way your brain works chemically.

But even as you relinquish everything, you cling to this illusion of control.

But death, or near death, has a way of shocking you back into reality.

I'm not suicidal.

God, that would make life easier if I was.

The human body is just too resilient.

It's that animal part of your brain, tent on staying alive, no matter what.

It just keeps going.

The self-destruction side takes a break as self-preservation takes over.

On autopilot.

pull myself back together.

The pieces snap back into place, each time a little looser and more painful.

Still in working order, ready to pop apart again with one good cut.

When you stop partying, it's like finding out someone you know just died.

Except that it's you that's died.

Depression.

Sadness.

Anxiety.

Paranoia.

Fear.

Regret.

The feelings consume you.

And then the guilt starts to set in.

The physical withdrawal doesn't seem to affect me nearly as bad as the emotional

one.

Physically, I just want to sleep it off.

But by the time I wake up, the physical withdrawal has abated, but the emotional

one has only grown stronger.

Some nights I lay awake for hours.

I lay awake for hours, playing through my head on fast forward. The memories

running around like clips on a worn VHS tape. I can hardly keep pace.

Feelings of wonder and wash over me, while the next vision flies by before I

can even process it.

I hold my pillow and I never find it. But I never find it again.

Some nights, I lay awake for hours.

I wonder, how can I? Will it ever stop?

The memory running around like clips on a worn VHS tape. I can hardly keep pace.

The feelings of warm memories wash over me and I can catch my breath. While the

next vision flies by suddenly and unexpectedly.

And I'm hopeless against it. I hold my pillow tight. The path.

All too familiar at this point.

And less enjoyable every time.

I can't go on.

I'm running out of tokens.

This ride isn't free.

Time stands still.

The ride is paused.

Back where I began this journey, I'm finally allowed to get off the ride.

But I've been spun for so long, I barely know how to walk.

Fuck, fuck.

I'm going to do it again.

Time stands still.

The ride has paused.

Back where I began this journey, I'm finally allowed to get off the wheel.

But I've been spun for so long, I barely know how to stand, let alone walk.

I quickly learn to crawl, and I'm left with a choice.

Back on the wheel, or towards the exit?

Leaving this place will be arduous, and the road is not lit.

But I must choose quickly, or be trampled in the crowd.

There's suddenly so much time.

Endless days and nights. You try to fuck it away.

But even sex off drugs is boring.

Breakfast?

Coffee?

The boredom can be too much to bear.

Staying away from firearms or any weapons or sharp objects is probably a

good idea.

There isn't really a need for control.

It's more a desire to prove you have something to the people around you.

I can describe it best this way.

It's like holding a brand new dinner plate at a buffet.

You've been given the chance to start your life over, and you're very hungry.

Hungry to succeed, to make something of yourself, and you want to do it as

quickly as possible.

You run to the buffet and pile things on your plate.

But before long, you realize your eyes are bigger than your stomach.

There are too many things on your plate, and the thought of sorting through them

becomes overwhelming.

In a fit of panic, you throw the plate violently on the floor. You watch it

fall and shatter.

You feel as if there was no choice. This was the only way.

A sense of relief falls over you.

A calmness.

Until you realize everyone is watching.

They have all seen what you did.

Panic. sets in, and you run.

Except you're still hungry.

So you set out to find another buffet far away from this one.

And the cycle repeats.

They really mean enough

They call it the two-cent bridge because you used to have to pay two cents to

cross it.

I come here to think.

Or not think.

Just to clear my head.

Sometimes a minute or two seems like hours.

The cold feels good.

I know I have two options.

I can jump.

Hit that ice cold water.

But I know I won't hit the bar.

I'll get close.

Then fly.

Fly all the way back to New York and Mistress to Tina's.

So I stay here.

In Limbo.

Yeah.

Who the fuck are you?

Christian Center.

Yeah? Did he tell you what you had to do?

No. Take your clothes off.

Fuck no.

What do you mean, you cunt?

You can't tell me what to do.

You get the fuck out of here. Get out of here. You.

You. Take your clothes off. Put everything in his bag.

Come on. Take it off.

Faster. Faster.

Let me see your eyes.

You have reptile eyes. Did they send you?

I don't know if I should trust you or not.

You're creepy.

You look really fucking creepy. Come on, take those pants off.

Come on.

Good. Come on, and you have those damn white socks.

Reptiles wear white socks.

Put it in there. I don't want bugs.

No. I don't have time for all this. There are too many of you.

You make me nervous.

Get that fucking bag. Come on.

Come on, get out.

Get in there.

Can we have some cheese?

Want some?

Yes. Say please.

I'm only going to give you a half.

No, give him a whole dose.

It's sublingual. Open your, say pretty please.

Pretty please.

Hot tongue.

Oh.

Swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow.

No, not that stuff.

That's frog snot. It's psychedelic. No, take the other stuff. No, not that stuff

either. No, go for that. Go for that.

Damn, that thing's bad.

You shouldn't. No, no.

You shouldn't have had that. That straight DM thing.

You're fucked.

You're fucked.

the streets lights have gone mad the walkers have gone

blind the screen is bright messages on

you stand upon you've become a

you've become a

Walkers have gone blind Can't crash over

What I was trying to find Under

the wheels You smile And the

night gets lighter But you are floating

I keep on trying to catch

You've become the air surrounding us Surrounding who?

I don't want to know But it makes me feel better

My friends are watching It's quarter to

nine at night While you smile

I can't help feeling sorrow for the good we've become.

But you look so damn happy.

We'd like to understand that the world has come to

an end.

Thank you.

If the world has come to an end, the walkers have

gone blind.

What are we trying to find?

We like to understand.

If the world has come to an end.

Thank you.

Come on, let's read my heart.

Good night.

Good night.

Smile.

Hey, I think this guy's dead.

He's just fucked off.

No, he's dead dead.

What do you mean dead?

He's dead.

What?

We've got to chop him up.

What? We have to chop his head off or else he's going to come back as a

zombie.

We need to follow him. Yeah, come on. I've got one in the kitchen. Come on,

let's go. You guys are fucked up.

Oh, my God.

Help me get him out of here before they fucking kill him.

What about this?

Fucking zombie.

There are no fucking zombies!

My god, just help me get him to a hospital before they fucking kill him!

We've gotta get him dressed.

Which bag is this?

I don't know which bag it is. It's just... It's literally anything.

I think there's a fucking saw in here somewhere.

I know I've got a fucking saw in here. What is it?

Here's a saw!

I've got a fucking saw in here.

There are knives.

Whoa? Here's this one.

Oh.

Hey, that's cool.

We could bring this one, too.

This is a good starting one. I know that the damn saw is in there. Here, grab

this. Hold that one. Where the fuck is this shit? I know it's somewhere in

here. Where is it?

Come to me, little saw. I know you're in there.

This one's good for chopping, too. Here, grab that one.

There you are.

Nice saw.

Yeah,

let's go do some sawing and chopping.

Where the fuck is he?

Fuck. We're too late. He must already be a goddamn zombie.

Let's smoke.

I hate when that happens.

Yeah. You gotta be fast.

Rob looked peaceful.

It was as if he was dreaming of where he really wanted to be.

I couldn't read him very well.

He had gone human, as we call it. No connections, no noise, just this

empty silence that we had been given originally by evolution.

Identity.

I envied him.

It was a way to be totally free.

yet totally dependent on the body.

The organic that we had moved so far from, but that was still so real and

felt so good.

It is here when you start to pick up the pieces of your soul.

But as you hold one piece, you drop another.

You give up.

Defeated.

You turn to the drugs again.

Only then do you not care about the broken pieces of yourself lying all

around you.

I ended up at this guy's place.

He seemed nice enough.

He said he wanted to help me.

You alright?

It's okay.

Wow.

How you doing?

Lousy. Hello.

What's up?

I've got a little remedy for you.

Oh yeah? How do you know so much about it?

Well... I have a friend.

His name is Drew.

He was, uh, pretty badly addicted to Tina.

Anyway, I used to make him these concoctions to, uh, help fire up the

synapses in his brain.

One day, he just left.

He left?

He left.

He left. He went back to Waterville, Maine.

Oh. Never saw him again.

I suppose I could go there and find him, but I... I don't think he wants to be

found. I'm not sure. He's never contacted me again.

Nuts.

Sometimes that's just the way things have to be.

You can escape the city, the crowds, and the easy access to endless parties, but

you can't escape the drug.

I thought it could, like going back to Waterhill, but it's everywhere.

All you have to do

is go online, open yourself up, and it will find you.

It's worse here, even, because there are no distractions.

It will hone in on you, and it will find you.

Oh!

It's okay.

It's okay.

I got to go to work. I'm just... I'm a slut.

There's food in the fridge.

Can I come down here?

Oh, yeah. Please, please. I want you to stay. I'll be back.

Yeah.

It'd be okay without me here, right?

Yeah.

Yeah.

I'll be back in a little while.

Okay. Okay?

Mm-hmm.

Okay? Yeah.

Yeah?

Okay, I'm off.

Bring me a present or something.

Sure thing.

Little did I know that his idea of help was sedating me, knocking me out, and

fucking me.

After God knows how many days, I knew I had to get out of there to escape.

It was easy.

Maybe he'd let me go.

Maybe he was bored with saving me. Who knows?

But in a twisted, fucked up way, he did help me.

I do drugs because they feel good. Period.

That feeling allows me to ignore all other feelings.

I can escape my actual reality and replace it with a drug-induced delusion.

Is that you, Jimmy?

No, it's Jackson.

I mean, Jordan, and this is, uh, Twerky.

What do you want?

Uh, to party.

What you got?

Nothing! Come on, you got cash.

You cubs?

No, we're kids.

Prove it. Put your clothes in this bag.

No way.

I don't like any bugs, wires, or cameras.

Okay, we are out here. Give us the money back.

What fucking money?

Come on, the money we just gave you.

Jackson, let's go.

I'm staying, chicken shit.

You look just like my son.

How old are you?

Eighteen.

My son was eighteen.

He's always going to be eighteen.

And you look just like my son.

Get the fuck out of here.

What the fuck is she doing here, Poppy? What the fuck is this?

I don't know what the fuck is this.

Get the fuck out of here.

Get her out, bitch. Get her out, Poppy.

Get her out.

Get the fuck in.

Get the fuck in.

Get the fuck in.

Close the door.

I just need to sit down for a minute.

Yo, what you want? Why are you here?

Our son...

He's

dead.

If he even was my son, damn, last time I saw that kid he was like fucking six.

a fucking scrawny little fuck, right?

I thought you should know.

Hey, man. What the fuck's wrong with her?

What, is she fucking dying or shit? What, is this like an epilepsy?

She's just fucking upset.

Go get some water.

Terry, Terry.

Yo, yo, yo, yo.

Yo, she's just upset. Go get some fucking water, Terry.

Fucking water, bitch.

Fucking water.

The fuck is in this water, man?

I don't know. I got it in the fridge.

Fuck, you know she doesn't fucking take drugs. What the fuck?

Fuck, I don't know shit, man. I don't know why the fuck you knocked up this

bitch instead of me. You want a fucking kid? Hell no, I don't want a fucking

kid. Then shut the fuck up. That was a fucking long time ago, bitch.

Shit. Fuck, man. Why is she here?

Why is she here?

Would you hear that?

I hear the cops.

I fucking hear the cops. You're fucking crazy, man. I don't hear anything. No,

fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Easy.

Do you hear that? I hear the fucking police.

I hear the fucking police. I heard it.

I can't see them, but I can hear it. I can fucking hear it.

No, just leave the drugs. Leave the drugs. I'm just going to get this.

Wait.

Let's stop.

Let's stop.

Drop that shit. Leave it and leave her.

Let's go.

Just leave her.

We gotta go.

fucking problem you get the fuck out of here fuck you you get the fuck out of

here and never come back jimmy

stay jimmy you're gonna have

all the drugs you want he's got your fucking son

Hey, get up.

It's very cold. Get up.

Here we

are, Tommy.

This is my apartment, okay? Thank you. Do you want to take a shower?

Yes.

Careful.

Yes, you kill me and I kill you too.

No, don't die yet.

Are you okay, Jan? A little better.

No money, no job, no street.

It's not life.

What happens is that my family doesn't love me because I'm gay.

I lived with an old man who had money and he treated me very badly.

So I had to leave.

What's your name?

Roberto. Roberto.

And you?

Luis. Nice to meet you.

Luis. Eduardo.

Eduardo. Oh, look, how cool.

So you don't forget.

All this, yes. Do you like it?

Uh-huh.

Do you try to clean yourself?

Every time.

Every time?

Very hard, right? Okay.

As much as you can? Uh-huh. Okay.

As long as I have someone like me by my side, I think I could do it, because

otherwise... A lot of people...

You understand?

Luis was one of those self-righteous former addicts.

He had cleaned himself up from sheer willpower and was going to help you do

the same.

But really, he just missed the life and wanted to be around other partiers.

He had only been clean for a few months after years of abuse, and he was in the

throes of amphetamine psychosis, which is like schizophrenia with much more

violent tendencies.

Hi. Hello?

Hey, Drew.

What's up?

I'm, uh, I'm great.

I'm, uh, I'm really, really, really great.

What? What the?

What the fuck?

How did that happen? That is so...

That's fucked up.

Were you slamming?

You ready for more?

You should come to New York. Plenty of supplies.

Yeah, it's a... It's a Christmas party.

My dream was to get as far away from this place as possible.

But I only made it as far as New York.

I had lots of dreams.

I was full of dreams.

But they were all sort of vague.

I had no plan.

And reality has a way of crushing dreams.

Those big American dreams.

Fame and fortune and all that shit.

I was just another anonymous lost soul in the big city.

dreaming of a place to crash, or finding a 20 on the street, until you get taken

over by emptiness.

You try to fill that emptiness with drugs and sex, and more emptiness, until

finally, the only dream you have is for all of it, and I mean all of it, to end.

Drew was asleep, his eyes still attached to his head, but long somehow.

I pulled them off slowly and left them by my side.

The mothership asked me what I needed. I didn't answer.

No amount of tech was going to get me what I wanted.

Well, look who's fucking here.

Back from the dead.

I'm here to eat you. Right.

Prove you're not a zombie. Stick out your tongue.

Blink your eyes.

Do it again.

Okay.

Come in. Take off your clothes.

Have you got any money?

Get

out

of the fucking way.

You. Up. Up.

Get out of the fucking way.

That one's just been living on my couch for a day. Oh, no.

Yeah, I'm back.

Well, you should have some of this. Why?

When they're kids, they can get away with murder.

Murder?

I guess when they're kids, they can get away with murder.

They can.

I went to this guy's house, and he has all these guys there, and I was like,

what are all these people doing here?

And he's like, Daryl's going to take turns with you. And I said, no, I'm

going to get out of here. I didn't sign for this.

And he said, what about this?

And he was like, son of a bitch. And all he said was, rob me. And they started

taking turns with me. But, you know, at the end, I ended up loving it. It's like

when the aliens possess you, like that.

Oh good, fresh knees.

Take off your clothes.

You can't just come in here. You can't. You can't do that.

Bums!

Bums! What are you doing?

Bums! Bums!

Bums!

Bums! Bums! What are you doing here?

You're coming with me. No, I know he isn't. Shut up!

Don't call me.

I'm gonna call the cops. Call the damn cops! Don't call the cops, you stupid

bitch! Why would you call the cops?

What are you doing?

Don't call the cops.

I'm gonna call the cops! Shut up!

Shut up! Shut up!

Shut up! Shut up!

Shut up!

Shut up!

I want you to kill me.

But you have to chop my head off so I don't come back as a zombie.

Please kill me.

Why are you coming with me?

Okay. You better get out of here. Okay.

You better get out of here. Okay.

Okay.

Okay. Okay.

Thank you.

There are endless possibilities of what I may become, may accomplish.

Possibilities to learn, to grow, to laugh, to

laugh.

I try to find joy in these little things, all the time knowing I am so

blessed to be alive.

knowing that my life could have been far worse, far more difficult than it has

been.

Today, however, life is good.

I try not to dwell on the past or dream of the future.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

There's nothing left to learn.

I can feel the earth revolving under me.

It doesn't want me.

Doing just fine without me.

I can't keep up.

I float away.

Once in a while, I catch a glimpse of who I was.

I get a shiver of your smile. Near corner is fine.

The far corner, actually.

That total euphoria of seeing you happy.

I do something stupid.

Say... I'm sorry, and you would just jump on top of me and smile.

I'm sorry.

I loved you.

I never said it, but I did.

I know that was real.

I know that was real. I know that was real.

I know it was real.

I know it was real.

I know that was real.

The poet doesn't invent.

He listens.