i've been trying to write a novel when i can barely write a noteni've been bitching about the heat since i took off my winter coatni've been trying to get back to where i was before i crackedninto these all too familiar piecesni wore a path in the yard from the front door to my carnwore a path in the road from where we've been to where we arenand these bright city lights are just looking for a fightntonight they just might get what they're asking fornas they ask once morenwhere did we go wrong with you?nwhat more could we donwhen you should know that it's true that it could be worsenand that's what hurtsnfor example,nmy cousin broke his face and had to get stitches in his headni went to pick him up from the emergency room and he was lying there in the bednand it was just like a scene from a movie when he said,nhow do i look? and i said marvelous.nhis mother worries about him all of the timenbut he'll never give in because he isn't that kindnand by kind i mean good to his mother who could havenbut hasn't given up on him yetnbut i'll bet she's saidnwhere did we go wrong with you?nwhat more could i do?nbut you can't help somebody who won't help themselvesnlet alone somebody elsenso help yourself, help me pick myself apartnkeep what you want and leave the rest for my artnas i make up for time i spent walking the lineni always knew would never keep them separatenbut let's be honest, we're just trying to decidenwhether to begin to live or to begin to dienand from one day to the next, depending on the contextnit's probably best to know there isn't a differencenbut my preferencenis to just be here tonightnsaying everything's all rightnover and over until i start to see that it's truensometimes that's all you really need to do.