old tunes for old wounds

Looking back into my diary, what makes me say those things? What causes my laughter at anothers disaster? I guess it's the bastard in me. Absence makes the heart grow still. Abuse the hunt; confuse the kill. We just might work out fine because I love you enough to let you give me the pain that I want. Once upon my night stand lied letters piled in columns, postmarked Middle Island, out east in the country of Solemn.

Blessed are the sick. Children shiver in the river. Where is our God now? Does he watch over all in El Segundo? Demons in, demons out. Cry for dawn. Gratis. Bored. I'm the matador of the children's ward. Beggars wed choosers. Red sheets. Bed sheets. Boozers. I'm the head fan. Blessed be my bed pan.

I'm digging a hole. I'll shut out the world. I'll shut out the world. This is what it's like to be alone. This is what it's like to be alone. This is what it's like to be alone. This is what it's like to be alone. This is what it's like to be alone. This is what it's like to be alone.

Why does monday even exist?