the was the year...

that was the year we called the death year, tubes of the second coming. despite
everything you spited everything. maybe they should have said what it was
going to be like when you woke up. it was nothing like a reverie. it leaves
anything you throw at me now as just that, you throwing something at me.
I wake up either way, just like I did the year I died.

that was the year we realized we had all been to our own wars, none of them in
america. some of them seemed, supposed and rosied up more than others.
how was it that we all had a skirmish. how was it that none of us remembered
the enemy after a few years had passed. how that none of it mattered, we only
wanted a coming death. death to end death. we kissed like that, a chair pulled
away from a table as a gesture of good will. go on, sit, sit.