it is 12:07 and this is the time that the flowers in my head finish dying, and i don't remember if i am a lover or a sad person, i don't remember if i loved a sad person, i don't remember where i left the catalogues to remember all of the things that i need to remember, i don't remember how to exhume the thoughts that lie somewhere beneath the dead flowers that once prostituted happiness to the glands behind my skull, I don't remember where my manners went or why i needed them, but i do remember that i am here and my skin hurts above the place where the shovel should hit and oh my god, this tuesday night is just like the last one, except im awake to see the callouses on your metaphorical hands as they dig up the answers to the questions that don't even matter anymore