#insideoutinsomniac

[insideoutinsomniac]

Our knees tapped the gummy underside of the tables at the Manville Diner on a snowy afternoon. The building looked like it could function on wheels, but the inside atmosphere was refreshingly warm. The waitress had a familiar face and poured our bottomless coffee quickly. 

"I'll give you a minute," she said, buzzing away, because she needed a minute. 

The plates were overstocked with heavy eggs to fill the empty stomach. Yolk to line an empty chest, whites to mold the heart. Phones sat in the middle, no touching game. All was well. 

I stared out at the slowing falling snow and wished all was well.

[insideoutinsomniac]

Static On the plush seats of a two hour delay in the city of roaches And no, it's not New York. Sometimes I wish it was. But instead, we seem to float endlessly along the glass, the only separation from Tuesday rain And the hopes that we may really feel something on our burned and painted fingertips. It's the turned page of New York, so to speak. The turn where the book slows. You get unknowingly bogged down from your high by the facts of the life. Facts say 10 PM departure. Facts say the city is a false state. Or do they? I can't recall. We're not going home to New York. The City of Roaches will have to do.

[insideoutinsomniac]

the night show

           2 AM crawls into Bangkok, leaving 3 PM behind in New York. She squeezes through the gate and taps on the glass to wave at the Thai guard – Golf, his name is. “Black Magic Woman” playing through his cell phone speakers is the only sound to break the night.

           She balances carefully along chalk lines, one foot before the other, to gracefully make her way to the Golden River Palace. She wraps the pillars in her cool breeze and slides her fingers through the waters, catching floating cigarette ask and making waves in the seas of time. She blows a kiss to shake the palm trees and quietly descends below the muddy banks.

           3 AM drizzles in on a raincloud and washes 2 away. He never meant to see her go, but her minutes dissolve into the drops. His passing rain doesn’t linger, but her silver touch is immortalized in the reflection of the night.

-Mackenzie Lowry

[insideoutinsomniac]

I’ve been losing lots of keys lately; I don’t know what that means, but maybe I’ve been better off with things that can’t be locked at all.

http://lcrphotography.wix.com/lcrphotography

[insideoutinsomniac]

there's a shit show right outside the window, but we're lucky enough to be locked inside we don't see the storm, so instead we concern ourselves with the nothing-goods in the pantry and the dumb bitches on the couch oh it's raining acid rain -- if you go, you'll drop dead but we're free to be cause we don't see the nothing-goods fill our bellies with nothing good and our heads with no such madness

[insideoutinsomniac]

an elegy

         ‘Tis a sad day to see the unfinished business of a carnivorous, free-ranged other, carried away by my own two hands to be tossed into the trash.

         Destroyed.  Deteriorated.  Locked in the depths of the forever darkness, surrounded by black plastic skies.  That unfinished business, the charred scraps of Lionel Sternberger’s prized invention, was butchered and abandoned on a silver platter by that fleshy, cowardly man.  He demanded a bigger, meatier endeavor.  He entered the big leagues with falsified bravery.

           Yet, here I stand, with these cheesy thoughts and beefed up promises unfinished, garnished with lettuce and bloodied with condiments.  Torn with incisors and left to die.

   RIP the cheeseburger.

[insideoutinsomniac]

when you’re slightly hungover after a very good night, it feels sort of like being high, except with head pain.

it’s the same kind of lack of energy -- like every word is robbing air from your lungs.

it’s the same kind of carelessness -- no need or want to check up on your ringing phone.

the world feels good after a good night.

the sky is extra blue and the sun warms every inch of your naked skin.

music feels like it’s simply part of the atmosphere.

it’s nice to just be in the world.

[insideoutinsomniac]

my bag.

a lighter, a straw, a wallet a quarter crushed by a train. tissues & crumpled receipts, thermal paper molded into felt corners; stuck with melted gum. hair clips, chapstick, a book half read. the 2am train ticket that never got stamped. keys & an ipod (cracked screen) some pills. the peeling orange corners of his business card– in a pocket inside a pocket. waiting patiently for her chipping, polished nails to tap away 10 digits, to the office. but he’s crushed under sunglasses & tide-to-go.