writ_in_water cr0wl Here lies one whose name was writ in water — gravestone of John Keats your hands grip the steering wheel at 3 and 9 like white-knuckled fear could be strangled by will. rain is deduced to spots on a cracked windshield. you squint through glasses and cut straight bangs an attempt to copy youth but are gut swallowingly betrayed by the bulging purple veins feeding your fingers. spider webs, that's it, you think. i'm stuck. in my attempt to avoid potholes, i wonder where you are going. the rain resumes, pounding like the angry assaults you ran away from. your life is written in the water disappearing down the drain. 100523 what's it to you? who go blather from