Crickside

Collections of thoughts on shuffle mode float through my head like drunken hornets, knowing not who they are or where they came from or where they're going but knowing full well that they want to sting me until I'm numb from the pain. I wish they would; numb me, that is, for the sporradic jabs of their stingers aren't doing me any good here tonight. The desk light isn't the sun and the serendipitous ventures of the moon just don't compare to the cool summer breeze that finds me sitting on a fallen tree over the river, watching people go by in kayaks and wishing like hell I were born five hundred years from now in either direction. A pointless wish from a dreamy little boy, a boy who's beginning to think manhood is a lie.