It was bitterness and heat, it was tears and fire, it was blue eyes and gunsmoke, black gloves and confusion and rage.

I’ve had a hundred thousand dreams before this one, remembered and journaled them and there’s this archetype that shows up, not an anti hero, not a beleaguered hero not the protagonist not even necessarily a main character except that I can’t help but reach out and make him the focus. He laughs like rasping, surls like nobody’s business and if I ever dared to call him mine he’d walk away faster than I could blink and beg to apologize.

Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.

Is it a flaw in me that I want to be fictional? I want to exist forever in print and pages, more than just my words but the heart of me that some other person has understood well enough to give a name, even if it’s not mine.

I want to be read in lines and panels, and I want my four-color self to be as real and existing as the grey day outside my boring windows.

I want you to make love to me on glossy pages, laugh when I light a cigarette in the middle of tension and cry your fucking eyes out when they find me, on page twenty-two, with a hole in my head and the last of my sensibilities lost to the hardwood floor.

I want more than this. I am more than this.

It’s never enough.

God, just give me the scotch, would you?

I’m only real when I’m drowning.






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