if i were a door, would you knock?

["weston sythoff" <fade19 at hotmail_com>]

hello there.  i'm scraping memories from underneath my fingernails.  it's 
dirty work, yes, but somehow rewarding.
if the sun is such a magic fellow, how come he's so damn hot?
when does the wind fill a gaping chasm?  is there substance to autumn, or 
are my hopes in vain?
what is the exact point when calculated action, deliberated messiness, and 
exaggerated loneliness become habit?
and why am i always full of questions, but still hungry?
and here i am expelling the demons to a faceless audience.
i wish someone would paint a face on me.  red, blue, and green would be 
nice, but i'd settle for permanent marker.  maybe even the smelly kind...
singing my songs for crickets and cigarette butts is taxing, but still 
better than no singing at all.
if one embraces loneliness, can one still be lonely?
i guess so...


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