I panic playing basketball, in the pretense I suppose I had a panic attack, in the present I'm still on the court seizure-ing re-playing my child-hood waiting for my dare shirt or some cop to come and save my life. I listen to the words but man I can't make out the syllables and everything is mono-syllabic, everything is dreary and monotone and skips every other half beat, every measure adds up into jumping rope and not for my heart, or for my health, just because I'd like to stay on track and hear the words as if they were floating like I wish the leaves would do. The leaves remind me of autumn when I was a child (the sentence structure as you will notice will not be quite as punctual as it probably should be.) I would lay dizzily in the grass under trees before the neighboring house behind us put up fences and cut down all the trees-- and let the leaves fall on top of me. I used to think that's just what dying was, because even then I could never sleep, and I thought dying was just sleeping-- like those wives lies white tales they tell you, "Grandpa's just sleeping," I used to wish I could sleep. This started my 11 year long infatuation with death. Crackling wood stoves diagonally mixing aromas with a pipe being smoked on the porch and an old man would laugh. I'd play football somewhere, or maybe I'd just have a car some day and have a lady to keep me company on my trips to California. I wanted to see a real ocean-- even at 9.

Even at 9, there were no girls. There were no ladies, there were no friends. There was just an empty, indescribable lusting for this piece of life that I knew was missing, and wasn't sure would ever come.

I wake up from the basketball court, and its 1 am, no cops have come, there's no dare shirt, there's no E.M.T, there's no friends, there's no girl and there are no leaves left.

Even at 20, there are no girls, no ladies, no friends. There's just this empty, indescribable lusting for this piece of life that I know is missing, and I'm not sure will ever come.