He who associates his aching soul with the lowly. He who shares the selfsame suffering of those whose blood have kissed the barren deserts. These tears are so sweet, fermented through hardened times, yet the heart itself is the most tender.

"Morning, Mr. Harper."

Walking home from a long day at the mill. Southside chicago on a rainy evening. Been hazy all day since 8 in the damn mornin type of day. Just feelin tense, but not really payin attention to the bullshit that surrounds me.

Paper reads October movin' onto November. Year is 1934.

Stoppin' by my bar, orderin' the usual beer.

Reading through the same old plastered news stories. Murder this, kidnapping that, stocks rise and fall here and there. Everyones got blown back by the depression, but shit its a saving grace I still got my job.

I'm 34, and ma keeps callin' 'bout when I'm gonna get married. Always askin' about when I'm gonna bring a girl back home. I would if I had the time, I'm too busy writing in these old books about dreams, fantasies and wishes that no man could see.

 Y'know, I keep gettin' word about whats goin' on overseas, some big thing is comin' our way. I can see a lot of violence on the horizon. The band of bloodbrothers are gonna go marchin again soon.

 But that ain't my fight...

A little prayer here and there to bring color back to the grey areas in my life. Just one of those days when daily occurences feel so way out of whack.

But I contemplate to myself sometimes, are my prayers selfish? I mean... I own alot of what people would kill for. But at the same time, old Jack outside my apartment window, 3 floors on another planet is beggin for dimes and nicks.

Old friend of mine from Miami decided to send me a little gift. Case of cigars from Cuba, and an exquisite bottle of brandy for rainy days just like this one. I can't help but laugh, even in the midst of my loneliness. Y'know, its crazy though. I still dream of Molly with the red hair and blood red dress at times. That sultry smile she sent my way back at the jazz club. I find it funny that I'd deviate to a different scene than usual. The music was damn good, enough to cure any man of his sick days.

But you could tell by the spark in ol' Molly's eyes that she's not the type of gal to bring home to ma 'n' pa. I wonder if that whole love game is still worth it. I thought about gambling my chips time and time again, but.. women? They want somethin a man ain't ready to give so easy.

Decided to give Mikey an extra 10 buck tip for the drinks. Coulda sworn I saw a tear in his eye when I handed him the cash. I feel like it was a selfish move. Just to make myself feel better at the end of the night.

Ugh... God dammit, you can hear the Christmas carols long before Halloween comes to ya doorstep. Never been one for these winter holidays.

I might just fly down to Florida again this year, a little "summer" getaway.

It seems as though the people I thought were close enough to know me would be able to hear my cries, so to them I speak with many faces, not once acknowledging my voice for even a split second. Things have changed where my heart is no longer so close to anyone.  They pay attention to little things that have no matter, but cannot hear when I scream in their ears about how much I do care. Expression is meaningless because no one will ever be able to find some common ground of being able to actually see into how another suffers, even with smiles on their faces. There are many walls that bar us in these times from coming close.

I thought to myself that I'd commit my soul to to  and page as a means of self proclaimed hypnotherapy.
Lost in the ebb and flow of a pen that takes flight over the blank canvas, painting the blood and sweat of men and their stories untold. Memories lost to the endless void of time and unexpected occurrences. Chaos has such a propensity to be beautiful, and the most agonizing. Life in itself is a reverberating paradox. We find joy in our lack of knowledge for tomorrow, as well as the most excruciating pains found in our furrowed brows of infinite worry.

In silence, I can hear the drops of blood from a broken heart as it vainly attempts to mask its scars. I carry the heavy weights of those that surround me, whether they are aware of such deeds or not. I sometimes wonder if these souls are capable of understanding my sight of things. How far do my eyes pierce through the darkness of destruction and pain? But alas, I write out of my own damned sorrows.

Even in these moments, she refuses to cease her visits, bringing me a great fire that comforts beyond measure. Her sweet kisses, dipped in honey gold, are the sutures to my open wounds. I do love this woman woman that only I can see. I often wonder if she grows tired of my antics and cyclical thought patterns. It feels so odd. Odd that I am so distant from the world. Maybe I prefer this distance. I have naught to offer in terms of conversation with others. I do find comfort in actually being able to let m y hands fly free over these pages again.

I'm not far, but I'm not here. Come join me by the riverbank where the sea meets this brook. Where the bear finds his solace in the berries that sing of an untold sweetness that flows through the unseen world. Where the spirit mingles with what the mind cannot comprehend, yet it has been drunken off its essence since the dawn of what we thought we could conceive. The love that lies dormant in broken hearts is much more than we thought possible. Come and join me for a drink. This honey mead could soothe thy soul as we travel to a dormant place.

Mrs. Ashby, whose heart was born before my ears, whose blood trickled slowly over her heartstrings as she plucked feverishly into the night. Her sweet songs gave rise to old sunsets that caused the beaches to be glazed over with an unreal warmth.

The harp she played many years before my birth echoes loudly towards the dew-covered hills, pleasantly laced with God's tears.

These songs and poems that stream from the ancients, walk hand in hand with the hungered youth of today. These treasures speak of a passion that ceases to greet the morning star in these times. It forces the soul into a ceaseless lamenting of yesterday. Evenso, yesterday was but mere moments ago... What a horror we face as a people when we have long lost the ability to create memories.

The blade of my pains have kissed my face more than I've ever tasted the lips of love. And yet even as my tainted blood clouds my vision, I still press on.