Adam's Garden

spitting fire is often the only coherent response to myself.  the caught and measured winds i engage are in fact reminiscent of the bordellos i found so appealing in the later days of my youths.  i could speak frivolously without encounter and with the dead winds i speak the kindest, not quite sure of my own beige antiquity, i could only beg forgiveness and write solemn notes defending my right to exist.

later on that night, i was given a chance not given to most and not quite the same as what i read entirely not too long ago.  i shot the player in the face and ran away giving myself just enough time to leave a paper trail ten miles long.  we all did.

i could only guess as to who or what or when i was needed, but needed i was and i could only figure my own benefits to be necessary and true.  i was light on my feet and scared of the pretense of my own ages.  i could kiss the lightest skins and baked the cured meats, but i was indeed left to my self.  and we spoke often.