People Underneath My Bed

From a little over a month ago:

I got people underneath my bed, I got a place where all my dreams are dead.

There are few things better than good scotch to relieve the pressure of dead dreams, lost loves, unrealized plans, talent trapped in latency.   Sometimes for brief moments it seems permissible to believe that love really can stay alive, that a marriage does not have to be a political or corporate merger, or an acquisition of finest livestock for breeding and show.  Maybe it’s our century, our values, the things we were promised that ultimately proved as attainable as the fruits of Tantalus, maybe it’s all these things that are the fuel beneath the indignant and impotent rage which guides our hardboiled decisions to never be satisfied, to get rich or die tryin’—“FBGM”, as they say—to casually break the hearts of those who dare try to see deeper inside of our human shells, into chitin-armored souls, only to feel our souls divided between those same hearts we’ve tangentially brushed against along our universal projections.

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