You Bastard

Rain makes wet the ground on which my feet fall to catch my weight repeat, repeat. The weight of a thousand miles on a monthly journey to to pay bills, buy food, clean house, make somekind of difference, deal with a woman who sits on a couch while I continue my work day at home. What did she think I liked it or something? I can't look at her - mania of anger and disgust. Where did this come from, this foaming-at-the-mouth, this counting down the days until we die, marking cuts on the barrel of my gun for ever time I wish we could just fight? This journal's title refers to life during marriage. In order to make sense out of it all - one must cut it apart, reassemble and hope for the best.scissor circus