shalev smokler

The stickers on the lamp posts that don’t go away. That is God. Embedded in my scalp under my hair where I can not see, there is God.

 Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river.  I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.

If you told me that destiny was real. That everything that would ever happen was predetermined. You know what I would do differently? Nothing. Why should I? Who cares that you were meant to read this? You have, and now it is over.

“Jack of all trades, master of none”

Cut me some slack

Please?

If two halves make a whole, why don’t 34 half-descents?

Can a lot of alright be good enough for you?

Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river. I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.

The pressure on your chest weakens as the craft gradually decelerates to a halt, and you find all the mass has been pulled out of you, leaving only your volume.