You're right, it isn't. The poetry you see in these places, the way the moonlight shines on my bloody hands the tombstones and the muffled screams wind in the trees paints a picture that Monet would have been jealous of. And with my artist's brush I still couldn't SEE HIM.I can't believe I chose such a failure.Milquetoast, I thought so much better of you.
Fuck that's cutting it close. I can get some booze. Leave it in the cabinet. He'll drink himself into a stupor. Then I can come out.Maybe I should throw myself down the stairs Monday night. Then leave the booze.I can't do that I can't do that Alright, that's perfect. I look forward to seeing you again, my friend. Enjoy your weekend.