I found this today. I wrote it sometime last winter. It proves I'm insane, at least. ----------------------------------------------------------- If I told you a story right now would it matter? Would you care? Would it make you smile. My similes of unicorns and tiled bathroom floors. The kind that makes them cold when you walk inside first thing in the morning with no socks on. I hate those days. I wake up too quickly afterwards. Like growing up too fast. Being forced to do things before the time is right. The right time. When is the wright time. The wrist time. I'm just enjoying the feel of wri wri wri wri wire. That's what I am by the way. I'm wired. I'm keyed up and I'm making no sense am I. Who say's I need to make sense. I'm a writer. I can turn anything into something beautiful just because I feel like it. Just because I say that I can. Just like those crappy artists. The ones that paint squares and a circle on a canvas and get to call it art.