"Would that life were a song!?," blazed those olive eyes.

(OUCH! God forsaken.) I fell out of bed again this morning. It's a mad thing, this bewildered occupancy you've taken up in my head.

Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars--wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this--muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding women, holding on strong with one hand--tattooed calves painted.

What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?

I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable, like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?