wuthitz

I have no idea how to submit lit as an deviation. (this is how the taciturn ask for help)

Well, isn't this nice: you, me, and the pressing urges of midnight. Thanks for joining me on this mostly ho-hum occasion. Most years, I try to forget about my birthday and not make anything out of it, however, my wife remembered, and brought home some prime rib and tiger prawns for dinner. She also bought me a very nice bottle of The Balvenie. A good bottle of scotch is something I only get to enjoy on rare occasions, due mostly to the somewhat exorbitant prices of upper-end scotches, but also due to absence making the heart appreciative of it's rarer pleasures. Once, I worked with a woman at Wal-Mart who said that scotch would 'peel paint

I pulled my head up from the desk, the skin raw and tender from its laminate pillow, and rubbed my face. Small bits of sleep trickled down my cheeks. What an odd series of dreams: scratching my fingers down the trunk of an alder, springing up through the young green boughs, and leaping out into the street below. Someone on a bicycle in a hot city street, the stink of untended garbage, shouting a warning of someone, something. The sun was too hot. I needed shade. Walking down a set of stairs, the awareness of the unconscious mind opening up. Candlelight on the walls, and a distant voice harmonizing with the winds in an opus of loss from acros