i told him i missed streetlamps. the dim yellowish glow in my perpetual darkness. he shook his head and banged his fist gently on the sturdy oak that was the wall of the cabin. it smelled of mildo and bed worn sex and my feet were so cold i nearly forgot they existed. i could tell he was irritated with me and my reluctancy to let go and embrace the stillness of mother nature. whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. i came from a family of incurable country bumkins. Spent every summer of my miserable adolecence at a campsite on the edge of the earth. eaten away slowly by nuclear mosquitos and smoking my brains away.


could maybe someday amount to something. somehow i think not.
it seems to close to home for some reason.