I can't stop writing -- it's as if there's still something I need to get out, but haven't reached it (you) yet, haven't bubbled over with clarity. So instead I will write for the sake of writing and hope it spills out. Theraputically, if you will. Unwind while people imbibe 10 feet away. Whatever.


Charlene walked to the door, wondering what lay just beyond the cracked wood rectangle. Peering into the dimly-lit hallway, Charlene wondered how everything had reached this point -- with a dead body hanging in the closet, her parents in Mexico, and she in the middle of this emotionally charged apartment. She let the stranger standing at the door, staring at her as if omniscent, into the muddled room. The stranger unlocked Charlene's soul in the five minutes he gazed sharply into her eyes, her mind, her being. He spoke to her in otherworldly ways, ways involving the heart (not the mind), the pulse, the burst of well being that comes from being in the presence of a person such as this stranger. He told her to ignore the threats of her own unconscious, of her self confidence (or lack thereof, poor Charlene), of her critical surroundings. He told her to battle the death in the closet, the death of the dying dreams she burried in the back of her mind always expecting to ressurect them but feeling the guilt of knowing she wouldn't. He had a nice smile. He said she was nice. And that made her cry.

The chatter from the depths faded away, signaling that the drunken bodies strewn across the parque floor would soon be ready once again to reinvest themselves in the practice of hiding the unforgiven and forgetting their calling.

::at least it makes sense to me::