I guess ...

I guess I just didn't put enough thought into it. Thing is, I thought a lot. Thinking is my prison - one with walls that touch the top of the universe. But that wasn't enough. If it was, I wouldn't be wading through quicksand with one hand shaking, trying to get a finger up, but I've got nerve damage. Hand doesn't work right.

Small-toothed men told me. They said you gotta think, so I fucking did. I thought about God and got that sorted. I thought about why I was bad and that was a record that skipped more than a million stones. A million pounds of guilt, sweet legacy.

Maybe I didn't think the right things. Maybe the smell of lavender should have been enough of a warning. Foreshadowing can be a tricky thing. The taste of a nine-volt battery on your tongue. Hell, I tried to figure it out a million times. Tastes like nickels that bite.

So, I thought a lot, but I thought about life and people and nature. I didn't think about how to get the most bang for my buck passing, and that's tragic. That's a skill I should have cultivated. Smiling - should have practiced that, too.

Now, I'm a lonely show - playbills litter the street, picked at by vagrants and lost wanderers. I got some thinking to do. I guess ...