Bluer Than the Night Sky

I'm editing the book I wrote for November. It's amazing the things I write that I forget all about. To whit:

Death evades those who want it and take those who love life. How many times have you seen it? Some evil piece of puke will flourish and rake in the money while he’s gouging every one he can, pinching every ass in sight and someone with a golden heart dies. Gold is apparently not a good thing for hearts to be made of. These sweet, loving, good people with so much to give are gone in less wind than it takes to blow out a birthday candle. Doesn’t that just kill you? But of course it doesn’t really kill you. It just kills part of the essential you leaving the husk and the pain to walk the earth and scream and cry and throw things until you end up in a place like this.

A place with bars and padded rooms and people who are worse off than me. Some who are better I suppose. They sure don’t care about the things I do. They work so hard to be good. Whatever good means. They lie so they can go home. Whatever home means. Be with their loved ones. Whatever love means to them.

I doubt it means love like a phoenix. Love that burns you even as you fly and ignore all the warnings. Love that makes you take a bullet. Love that makes you throw a child off of a train track two seconds before the train comes. Love that makes you cut big long gashes in your arms and throat because you want to believe. You want to believe that there is one millionth of a percent chance that your love lives on another plane. That speck of hope that never dies, just kills you, hurts you, stabs you, keeps you staring and calling and longing. The hope that you can be with him again and it will all work out.