Rounding Up.

Some You's and I's and We's for all of us.

I'll watch you paint your pictures. The canvas reflects such dull and sullen colors. Your skin tones, the color of mucus; your smile like jagged, dusty glass. "A Self-portrait..." you say; "This is how I look. Tell me I'm wrong." You paint with the hands of William Burroughs. Steady your hands. Take a breath. Things aren't that bad. Just turn on the light. Things will seem brighter.

But Captain, the ship is sinking!

At least the water is warm. Let it take you. We can find the shore. All the waves roll back to land, and and through the overcast, the sun will warm the beaches. All you have to do is stand up and walk on to the shore. Scape the brine from your eye-lids, son. The urchins on your feet seem to have made your knees grow weak. Our peripheries mark the boundaries of our line of sight. Imagine the blurred objects to be the sill of your window of opportunity. Everything bounded by the corners of the world as you see it is an opportunity. Take it for what its worth, or die with empty pockets.

If you reach old age without callouses, you clearly haven't tried. Let your hands harden. They were given to you to use, I promise. When your fingers are made of stone, and they still refuse to hold water, you can finally tell me I was wrong.

So you still don't know.
So you didn't really try.
So she didn't see it coming.
So. So. So. If there was no uncertainty, we could all be born 75 and satisfied. Go ahead. Fuck it up a little. Life looks better when it's a little worse for wear.

And the sun will follow the rain.