just write...
Perhaps I used to write of maybes in far away places of distant thought patterns. But that was before I found myself embittered of the tiny nuances that spring out at you on a casual Sunday as the light is passing in through the dark curtains of a morning slept in too late. Perhaps I used to have a grasp on the things that oozed life, but I have lost the ability to make a distinction. Everything I experience tastes like cardboard.
