Today, I failed to be a man again. In the triumphant windswept nights of cities without street signs, a roguish soul finds solace in the only thing he knows to be wrong. Late nights of sleeping press those obligations where someone finds themselves face-to-face with someone they've never met but lived with their entire life. Occasionally. And then comes the time when bar-back tumblers smash to the floor at our feet, and for lack of something we don't acknowledge they exist. Or any recognition, momentarily, of the event. There is comfort in knowing insanity when it spits into the air and rattles a chain link fence you've fit to brand yourself in it's sturdiness. Envy ensues and then the recognition that all who have it known, don't know anything but the shell of a person who they vaguely remember begging in shopping marts for bubble gum sticks. It's hell, my friend; hell. The day when the door opens and you look out to the most recognizable and cultured landscape of heaven, only to think of how much gas is in the tank of your friend's car; thankful the entire time for having been allowed to borrow the tread of their tires. It's the end of justice for oneself, when you say martyrdom is a myth and that all we can find are souvenirs from smoky New Jersey trattorias, memorialized as good when they were actually quite the same as those unintentional roof top night stompings. Yes, we find a plan but too often the dreams we never had catch up with us and then find the moment we've been waiting for and then release ourselves to momentary gladness, just before they close our eyes.