NEW WRITING:

He wanted to be so much closer, but felt, despite his hummed dreams and wishful affirmations - he was ever further away, ever drifting in the void. He would sit at the kitchen table, hands on the dulled, pitted surface, dreaming that he had the wings of a beaten up angel, wishing that he had the smile of a broken god. He would lie on the bed in a saggy white t-shirt, his naked legs spread out before him, and he would dream that he was a bent messiah, wish that he was a prophet with no tongue. He would stride along dirty grey pavements in sneakers with no laces, dreaming that he was a poet with no story, wishing that he was a spent force with no substance. Dreaming and wishing, wishing and dreaming - all part of drifting in the void.