Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

Move damn it.

The burn on my shoulder is still raised and puffy.
My jeans are still ragged.

Light.
Drag.
Exhale.

Last night's a haze.
Last week...

This headache isn't getting any softer.
This drain is only getting louder.

And only fourteen hours to go.

Just enough for cigarettes and twelve packs.
What the fuck am I doing?

What was it all for?

Is this what my lifeless aims have come to?

Half-hearted swings.
Noncommital shrugs.

What exactly is left?
And is it worth saving?







Could it get any worse with you?
Over there

We could pretend we're a village.
A home.
A family.


For a while at least.

Would it be this bad?