Friday, November 28, 2003
In the middle of my country, resting in between excursions, I ponder the probably and wonder what the maybes hold. I know that the future watching is a horrible game for the human mind. I swallow hard every time I make plans. I can't have the assurance, or insurance, or sure of anything-ness anymore. Not that I ever had it, maybe that I thought I did. Each sharp turn each dollar of someone else's money spent a claim on tomorrow that might not be coming the way I like it. It might be waiting to come, it might be coming tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Hope or Die I hear the bartender say. Die of hope says the salesman. I can't put my finger on the lie but than again I haven't had feeling in my hand for a month. The truth can hurt you when you want the lie. Lonely, in a crowd of friends, I cry the hidden tears of an icon.