My head is filled to the brim with dizzy, sorted thoughts on this eveing like all others, but somehow special for the rest of the world. It's Saturday night and nothing matters to me much and I wonder why that is and also if I've just become so wrapped up in my sins that I dismiss everything else around me. I am stuck on a little wooden boat, far out on the ocean front, and the storm before me awaits my drift and rumbles and tears at the skyline for my arrival, of fresh blood and aching; of old passings, and new beginnings ended. As I press my weight into the oars I think on times that weren't so troubled. I wonder if it was that version of me and not this one that was the right; of days and of nights, when the drinks and the friends and the laughs were thick, instead of lost to me now. Why, oh why must it be this way? Someone, anyone will say it doesn't have to, but you don't know and you never will. I have had a headache all day long. Nothing has helped it. The oxygen, like the mountainous places I've travelled, is thinner in my lungs from the smoke and the paniced pangs of constant loss from my grip of life. I'll never fall too far. Just far enough to shut out the light and stay in to doors remembering instead of living, watching instead of seeing.