I keep on taking tick for tack on the way things measure up. It’s a nasty little habit, an autumn cold I catch every year when I get competitive with the worst kind of competitor, myself. I pinch nerves and wreck muscles, throw out perfectly good sentences because after all, it should be better.
It’s the first day of real cold. Cold that makes you remember there are bones in your fingers. Should it be colder? I do it again. I want to get kisses that leave me with kisses and frost tipped noses and swapped spit on street corners. I want to get behind these ideas. I want to get ahead of myself.
I had a dream last night I pulled a ladder down from an attic and got electrocuted by its wooden rungs. When I woke up I couldn’t move. I could even dream better.
What did the master say, sometimes you play lonely games too, games you can’t win because you play against you.