One track mind? Wish it was four track time. No cracks or breaks.

I wanted to take a second to see if you still read. What I typed last time was two past petrified. If you do. Still reeds standing placated by the lack of bluster. Bottles quivering empty to be recycled by the flag pole as the stars and stripes stand stagnant. Straddling the chasm? Trying to reclaim the past? Posit this. Everytime your curser blinks, your cursor winks like a miser slinking with his shekels past a slightly cracked door. Another feat ahead seeing the feet be clad in another we'd be glad, be glad if she peaked at her past type. Run on. Go ahead, barefoot, I dare dare you. The tautness of your twenties, glimmering in recollection like a sunset, fading like my wardrobe. The permanent press. As we squirm towards egress, pack and squeeze into the cracks of these facsimiles. In the past we seized. Grasping. The chances, trying to be Frank, while be Francis. All types of cancers lurking in the shadows the metastases splitting their tumors like a pack of thieves. All we breathe is apathy, and you can see it. In the air and in our purpose, the snacks in our lunch box to the Fireball in our Thermos. Being the blanks, to the gunfire in the skirmish, looking crooked with a beer belly at fucks with six packs, Its the firmness, so tight, with which I'm critical, the truth declared illegal rumours rampant deemed admissible. Another missive full of favorite words like penchants and proclivities, the barrel over dams, the bland we find inspid. These bent and crooked knees, tendons fraught we the fears of failing. We quake and quiver and when they snap and roll, its the nothing. Not the pain, the leaves us flailing.