Till the fire plays with me when we have it all figured out

What better way to forget some things I've done than to indulge myself in a fleeting life of sin in a way I thought I never might.

An accumulation of days spent being somebody who's intentions; I thought best at a time and to then find out that none of this necessarily has any bearing on the future or any bearing on those for whom I have such great concern for.

Forgetting myself for a while, tasting, breathing and swimming in a sea of the adulturous capitalist monster. Exchanging the sight of some shameful skin that might also one day hope to forget the garments shed and feels like food might be put on the side of the table.

Because in so many ways we're so much the same, it's shame and it's sin and it's sad and it's duality. And it's something I hope can be ignored in future days in altered future selves and tears shed collected and dry on the bed spread, the table top and through it all but none of this can speak even a word for what we hope might be of ourselves at a later time.

All the world's good intentions can sometimes count for as little as breeze blown dust to the air and into your eyes bringing the sting and welling tears to drip and to deliver to the air of your home a little taste of a simple course of action that you wish could be wiped clean from the face of history but that won't be because you won't forget why you cried them.

I want to wake up somewhere else, someone else, without a recognizable past.

Entirely.