death to impertinence and listlessness of life.
revive my salaciousness, over-indulgence and fervor for life.

"But it's too late, I know that it's too late."

Sometimes the hybrid of my minds (the mad and the sane) reach an interlude. The mad one wants to have you, and the sane one says every variation of "NO". 

The Bike Ride

When I left my house, the air was stale—silenced and waiting; for the thunder and rain and the flowers wanted wetness and life and eventually they would continue to bloom and lead mature adult-like lives. The flowers wanted responsibility; they lusted for the air to become stale because they knew what was coming, wetness, the flowers asked for sips of philitre. The Calibrachoa that were potted and perched in the branch-arms of an old oak asked for wetness. The lilies in the cracked soil cackled and threatened to wilt away if they did not get their water. The peonies pleaded for philitre, drops of life, thunderstorms, and a resonant nightmare for the easily stirred. Awaken the earthworms and all variants of summer soils.

The place I live, I have come to realize after the extent of my travels is rather small. You can have the entire city gridded out and constructed like a map intrinsic within the brain. I left the house on my forest green glider-bike at half passed eight on any old night, crossed the train tracks on Kingsway and continued to glide my way throughout the river neighbourhood. It does not take long to see a familiar face, so we stop and hop off our bikes, greeting each other with hesitant yet kindred gestures.  We part ways, I glide towards the river, along the winding road and decide of my own volition to take a wide right, startling a speeding silver vehicle in the near distance pace, for perhaps if she were a bullet, she would be shedding shrapnel and I would see white powder dusting out of the exhaust engine instead. She slowed her pace while I increased mine, continuing the neighborhood glide-about.  On Cordova Street I began to dawdle, as did a toddler and mother on the sidewalk parallel to me, the young girl appearing to be gliding for the first time, on her pink and purple training wheeled bike. She lets out a bellowing “Screeeee” of painfully endearing elation. Her mother has caramel curls, and the small girl has curls of cocoa.  They laugh together, and I glide off towards my home, my backyard, and back into the secluded state of restlessness and anxiety of possessing my future.