You win some and you lose some and they will tell you it’s all part of playing the game and the trick is you believe them but they don’t believe themselves. I’d like to know where the truth went but no one else seems to mind it’s gone so it’s tough to tell if I’m the freak or they are, suffice it to say that there are plenty of reasons to check out of the madness that is reality and sail off into a daydream about anywhere else but here. What is the game if not imagination. What is writing but the biggest smokescreen of all. In my most hushed thoughts, you emerge from a deep dark wood. I kneel before you as your benevolent hand encircles my throat. Your tender fingers examine my mouth, wide open. Am I clean. Am I warm. Am I wet. Am I worthy. In the soft blackness of steady smooth nightfall, the only sound is my breathing and your heart beating on the winds of the petrified wilderness, spread out for miles and miles in every direction. The smell of rotted leaves dampened by the heavy sodden fog. The pressing of need on my waiting tongue. We don’t say what we want for fear of revealing our mangiest selves. We try to hide that which just might save us in the end. We do not like the taste or the sound. We the sadist. We the masochist. We the gaping hole dug into the indifference. We take the emotional cold-blood from the veins and let it seep into the hard winter ground. If life becomes season, bittered with longing, cut away from the raw bone of time, and death removes his hand from my skin and my language, would it be enough.