Once in awhile I like to dig through my archives, and I came across this silly thing, written in 2004:
The new digs are the same old filthy.
Formatted like a hard drive. Your salty-lipped kiss gave me a wet dream, shortly before I saw the shooting stars in your eyes pierce me from behind. Speaking in tongues was never so fun until I learned to adapt to your dialect. Translation: 17 seats were ejected from a sub-atmospheric airliner, sacrificing the virgins to the Gods of Apollo. And there you were, lying beneath the wreckage, the contents of the package firmly within your grasp. Not entirely inspired, but your argument was tired. Deep-breathing and heavy lifting the same old rhetoric, as if extra repetitions would help you watch your tone.
I’ve heard stories of woe travel like a game of Telephone, each version getting sadder and more dramatic through every set of teeth it passes. “Oh how I cried on the day my mother died…”, proclaimed an anonymous passerby, carrying a striker’s placard, feigning interest in his very own tale. When I passed it on, I re-spun it like my favorite yarn, new-and-improved and ready for mass consumption.
It’s days like these that a nicer presentation matters, like woven thread shred down to tatters.