now what do you want me to tell you? beauty is in the eyes of the people, blooming with every flower, dripping down every blade of grass. its the lack of an answer to a question you can't even dream to forsee like, 'where will i be when i'm thirty?' the silence that follows just hangs itself up on the clothesline next to the rest of the things we have to wait to find out. i think it is fear, you told me. well what am i supposed to say? it must be something about the way your eyes speak louder than your voice. i'm searching the carpet for answers, but i can only find myself. you thought you might have lost me somewhere along the cracks in the walls. it's when the evening starts to boil that i am aloof in my voice, and my laughter drips off the reciever and onto the floor instead of in and on to you. tomorrow just seems like a promise for a lost cause that you feared more than death in the first place. a lengthy dissappointment streams down the back of my neck and echoes in my ears; soon enough... you'd think, soon enough. the pavement will moan under your tires and your hair will fall into your eyes. four parts of me, all of them seeming to point in one direction with three letters, will be confused and find themselves lost in translation of this string of thoughts dressed ever so carefully in ambiguity. i woke up on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere wondering which direction would bring me home.

these words will be what they are as everything cryptic should be laid to rest anyway.