See, I make happy.

Desperation, aggression, exhaustion, repression, remose, retaliation, reclusion, regret.

I won't sleep tonight, but it isn't because I'm not excrutiatingly tired. It's not because I can't seem to lay myself down in cold sheets and go through another night, tossing and turning - turning and tossing. It isn't because I feel listless or useless or valueless. Not because the shadow falls between this line and that, beause black and white have all gone gray, because the world I'm imaginging - you aren't a part of it again.

All that's not why I won't sleep.

I couldn't if I tried. I'm restless. On the inside, where all my feeble vulnerablility-matter rests on the tarnished throne of my chest cavity. Where all of my life-force and spiriti-blood stirs up all mixtures that concoct whatever I'm made up of. No. There's something simmering, something brewing like bad ale. Something about to boiling point, something about to overflow over the edges of the little cup I'm keeping me in.

And when it does, I'm just afraid no one's there to witness the demise, effectively infer the destruction - later, clean up the mess I'll make of it.

So I'll sweep up my own remains. I'll throw my own throw-up in a bucket that I found in the back of the janitor's closet, and I'll mop up the floor. And you'll never know how sick, how ill, how nausious I was, in spite of my best efforts to feel alright.

You'll never hear the echoes of this sick stomach or see the ashes of this burned up relic of a once living thing. And you might not have known the sanctuary of this old church-yard ruin, but now you'll never have to chance my cemetaries to see it.

So be at peace, and I'll pretend to, too. And we'll make happy together. Because that's what people ought to do anyway.

-RK