idle writing

as you drag your finger along the skyline. the car stops. Your finger doesn't,
and only slows to scale the tallest buildings. i remember once you told me you used to do this when you were a kid. i can imagine. something as simple as this taken with detached seriousness as the taskmaster of your own little world.
i was having one of my introspective freeze ups again. the kind that put me through a garage door in my dad's car at 15, the kind that makes me look like i have my head pumped full of helium, and the kind that has made me almost incapable of imagining myself in love from here on. This is all after the fact.
--

does it take a hour to get downtown
does it really
does it cost that much to trim the trees along the side of the road
is it so hard to paint a straight line down the center
is it so difficult
is it so hard to stay where you're from
can't we give any less than we are?
can't we care less
can't we bury them all somewhere
is there more we shouldnt know about
is there more choice in coffee
is there more to keep our children from
is there a more desparate place than ours
does it kill us so slowly
does it have to hurt
does it mean we have to go
what would the neighborhood say
who'll be cleaning up
when the parade is over get on board
we're easily fading faster than ever before
-

you're two steps back from the ledge and i'm watching tv in a different time zone