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A dream from October visited again in November.

It was impossible to run out and meet the night, from where I was sitting.
Across from her at that restaurant on Marsh St.
“I’ve identified the problem” she said in a cold, lifeless voice. The lantern still in her cold white hands.
“you’re terrified of being loved”.
With that last sentence I woke from the sleepless October dream.
So what is my next command? Raise the portcullis and drain the moat?
I began to suspect that traveling storyteller with the troubled mind was right.
I do often suspect my ribcage is a sort of jail cell.
I’m not sure what it is I want to keep out or in.
It’s evident from the street there is a conflict inside.
To hear the echo now might have just saved my life.
Or at the least a chapter of a book I can’t yet write.
And again to further contradict myself, in my own learned form, I’ll tell you something here.
As much as I strive for the clean drawn page. I’m often just thirsty for a fiery destruction of my delightful own.
It crosses my mind more than she does.
Brightly.
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Nothing against coffee drinkers…

I put down my cup of coffee. I was frustrated. I don’t even drink coffee. I suppose though except for that particular day. I like the smell but care not for its taste. A touch too acrid.
 
It was our conversation rather than the beverage that lead to my displeased state of mind.
 
Coffee wouldn’t make me frustrated like that, shaky probably, but not frustrated.
 
We finished our passing back and forth of sentences, and I turned to the door. 
A series of revelations poured over me like a rain of nails and glass.
 
To say to me what she had said would most certinaly have required;
That she had never read a single poem I wrote, never heard a single note or verse of any song I loved.
She hadn’t looked into any drawing I had rendered.
She hadn’t listened to anything I had said about who I am and what I mean.
 
It can be painful to learn the assumptions others have made of you.
 
That’s a realization that’s a lot more frustrating than any cup of anything. Save for a cup of angry fire ants, though that too would be more physical pain than frustration.
 
What is one to do?
 
Well I didn’t drink any more coffee, instead I listened to 100 verses of ragtime, and conjured up every imaginable bird under the sky.
 
Because, all joking aside, I don’t drink coffee, I draw birds.