words once came easily from lips and to paper now there is no triumphant clause. no daydream memorandum. all is trite. bed sheets only get soiled further and ashtray contents climb. washes of gray and gold on walls from sunlight filtered through cloth haze. words from voices that are not my own words that make bad singing sweet. and despite their sweetness contain no benevolence.
life has not been so succinctly self. i have participated as three witnesses: first, the barer of bad news. sinister and childish, where the only growth is cancerous. next, the insecure. who has tasted truth, but remains disillusioned by the first. finally, the other-worldly euphoria that floats in clouds, stair less and without law. there are no more words. there is no feeling. there is absolutely no balance.