This is how it feels: it feels labyrinthine, it feels cluttered. It looks like a table covered with objects, some of which correlate, some of which are a pile of fruit and vegetables on a round, red dish, where the dust has licked along its ruddy edges and left evidence of its path. It looks like a nearly-empty plastic orange pill bottle with mustard-hued pills that want re-ordering, it looks like the rudderless head attached to the body of ills of questions of newfound hatred of commas.
It feels angry and dashed and it feels drenched to its core in shame. Where is the shining All-American confidence? Where is the rising above? Not in the anger. Not in the gutted homelessness. Not there.
It wants peace. Perfection. It wants courage and steadfast consistent high-flung head strength. It wants sex. And desire. And it wants its way.
It wants its way.
