45 and Such.

I have about 45 books of various nationalities, all waiting for my reading cap to be on.

They won't stop staring at me.

Crisis on the Water

I’ve seen them depart.
1,2,3, and 4; now I’m here alone.
Overcast with a window view; it’s raining outside and inside.
Here it’s cold and wet, like the beach in Nassau County.
I’m under the ocean in my living room.
Alone on the couch, I’m resting beneath a mile of water.
Sunk like the Titanic, my ethics were her sister-ship.
Thought to be “unsinkable”; or hardy to say the least.
But I ran upon an iceberg, it chilled me to the core.
I tried to save the passengers, tried to save the ship.
The water rushed my head and buckled my bulkheads.
And even with the life vests, they all drowned alone.
The strong have all died; died like what I believed.
Now I rest alone, a mile under the Atlantic.
With no evidence of my shipwreck still floating on the surface.
And no governments looking for my corpse; no one even knows that I sank.
They think I still haunt the sea, with a boat, a crew, and passengers.
But I only haunt the ocean floor and my living room, with no ethics and no passengers.

They call them rogues, they travel fast and alone.

One-hundred foot faces of God’s “good” ocean gone wrong.

Feet First, and Heart Behind Rationality (Warning Signs)

I slipped in a rush and then down some stairs.
I slid with my back, now it's under attack.
My body, it screamed and my heart, it leaped.
My eyes lost the count and my ears sowed and reaped
the discord of my feet that weren’t underneath
my two legs, my two hands, or my two heads.
My two lungs lost the time and I felt in my mind,
I am falling, falling, falling down to disaster.
So there I did wait for the crash, for the break.
For the shatter, for the moment, for the ache, and the hate.
My leg is in two, and tidal of pain
is all I can see; except for the bone, the other bone, the blood, and my grief.
And that’s when I knew that the stairs and the concrete
and the handrail and the caution signs
were all for a purpose; to keep me on my feet.

Rewarding Investments.

I invest my time in Star Wars literature and thinking.

They are rewarding.

Dusk.

(There is rarely anything in the dark, save what was there in the light.)

We do not actually fear the dark itself, but the unknown that haunts the shadow.

1879 Set My Living Room Free

One-thousand little burning filaments in one-thousand little glass bulbs. One-thousand years of pain and suffering and another forty-nine thousand just for good measure. One little switch releases one little current and the room fills with the sought-after of one-thousand generations. One-hundred-billion fires later with all the third-degree burns in the world and man finally gets the magic light of the gods. All the hard-work that all the hard-working men sparked into flame to hide from the dark, and Edison’s magic fire hides my living-room at the flick of a switch.