frostbitten klarchen I shouldn't of ventured out that feverish evening. Just to see you again. I gazed from afar, unnoteworthy, except for those few perplexed glances you gave me. That was to be expected though, as I was the familiar face that once upon a time you gave a second thought to. And the windows were open, and church air became enveloped with orchid dew, that cast nostalgic spells. I became lost for those lingering moments in the strains of sweet songs that surrounded me like spirits, devilish and angelic. Your glances started to press down with an unbearable weight, I desperately needed to return them in order to restore an equilibrium. I failed at doing that, of course, as I always do. The spells were much too potent. And the inevitable silence came, how it screamed, and pounded, and echoed and laughed. The monotone voice of talk spilled into the air, violating and replacing song. I cursed those voices. And there I saw you, talking to her. The spell said that it was no threat. Someone closed the windows. The spell ceased. Abruptly, the air was then dispersed with unequal quantities of temperatures, as I realized what she stood for. Closest to you the air was at its most glacial coldest, unglanceable, untouchable. I left, searching outside for some warmth of air, how fiery the sunset was that evening. The furious air was no consolation. For my tears were iced. And I was frostbitten. 000723 ... jeffrey the wind of change blew in from an old Bob Dylan whiskey bottle dried my tears my tears as it always does dried or drown them one as I lay dying in contemplation of self as I lay with the woman I loved here in my mind in my prison in my self the temprature is low down low from behind it stings my teeth the arctic menace shatters my hair into darling little curls then shoves me into the snow red snow rum from the slum of the chum who passes by lifts my spirits again now eruth so far to home you trek so the frostbitten journey is splendid not here not in this alley I live in where the "monotone silence" parades round in its only voice the voice of cold of inner nothing of winter of old men with hangovers who get nothing for christmas who get frostbitten 000723 ... ShilohLives the way I write is frostbitten...I think it's gonna fall off...soo bad...Damn...That Just sucks... 030703 what's it to you? who go blather from