Wheels +3

The goalpost is crawling away from the toes of steps beyond me with every word I add to this sentence, and the next one, and the next one.

I crumpled solidarity into a ball small enough for a wastebasket, but I'm still kicking it along.

There's a self-aggrandizing hacker group that takes over the marquee over my mouth, and anytime my dude at the brain levers falls asleep, they're posting personal information all over Time Square. And I'm as comfortable with that as I am with my desperation for boring and explicit conversation.

Back in the day, trust was the drug I was never in short supply of, I was always getting high and dealing--until I got busted with it. Now I'm begging for snippets of truth in the street and sniffing at cracked open doors in dark alleyways for validation.

Some people call it living life on the edge, I call it being a gullible asshole. The gullible asshole calls it goodness, kindness, altruism. He calls it the tippy top of idealism. The edge is only a single point on the spectrum of living. And honestly, the pinnacle of existence is lonely.

We're all different, and we're all the same, we all bleed blue and green, we all love our mother's cooking, we all put on gloves five fingers at a time.

I know I'm alone in my head. Are you alone in there too? Do you hear the same things I do? If you're willing to share that secret with me, I have a treasure chest full of love and faith I vowed never to spend on myself. I'll keep a little, but you can have the rest.