I do not held my breath for deliverance. This damp air is home, and damned if I wont draw every last lungful before I rust, crumble, and retire this racket, limp dicked and 7 foot down so they wont see my proud middle digit.

I have never mistaken the stars for a Heaven. Thrown into existence, perplexed by their own being, condemned to live and die reaching out, creating, questioning.
The ignorance of it.

But in this ephemeral corner of life, with the hiss of a fumbled roll up between my lips, whispering through its shy and voiceless tundra, I think I got it. I've sunk my soul and shell into every book, potion and woman that would do me the service of sheltering me. Of all the indulgence, gratification, and carnivals of bliss that have fallen so willingly into my lap, f**ked if I've ever felt so close to God.