The sun is setting. The end of a day. A week, a life. The skies explode like the effects of bullets and mandibles — reds and oranges and bits of blue. I didn’t even know the brain was blue, unless you count the melancholic part, which I don’t. That part is more reds and greens and Deck the Motherfucking Halls with gaso-fuckin’-line. Light a match and watch it burn down to the ground along with dignity and grace and those little umbrella things in fancy-pants drinks. Maybe that’s the problem. Fancy pants drinks and gasoline. Could be one and the same. They could be, but no one really knows.
And that’s why the sun will rise, tomorrow, and the next day, and the next and the next, for nine more months, at least. And then, at 44, a perfect age to get lost at, my heart will grow big — too big — like the Grinch on Christmas morning, and the sun will set. And there will be no more tears. No more stomach contents crying for freedom. No more life and death. No more sunsets and sunrises. No more kisses and cuddles. No more mandibular explosions and rooftops painted black and white and red all over.
To be or not to be. That is the question.
Always was. Always will be.