I could tell you something to make this ok, to take away the oh-fuck-what-have-I-done. There are little worlds, like bubbles in honey, sweet and nostalgic amber. You can never reach those. They'll crystallize and lose their urgency, like photos of people I just had to take, just had to document their souls somehow tangibly. They crystallize; now I can't remember their names.

Chasing after a firetruck during the first torrential downpour of the season I thought,

this isn't my life wake up wake up wake up.

I can never reach that.

I know a guy who likes firetrucks; he's far away, like things I've never finished. Little worlds like honey. He told me you can cut anything apart. There's nothing in me to cut, but

when I sleep I feel I could wake up in a thousand pieces.

He's somewhere in the woods, and I'm in the city not wanting to be in the city anymore. Someday our paths will diverge, and I'll be left with all his old beer caps. We'll be stuck in thick amber no longer breathing.