** a bit of late night prose from M.Sahm **

There are words that lick the frosting off of your cupcake fucking world. Words that throw golden gates into the bridge of your nose. Words that rock the pants out of themselves.

There are words neatly laid across the ironing board, pressed and steamed so you may present them on yourself to your world of one. Your suit of cashmere lies, ready to assume a fashionable persona that may or may not be who you once were. As you walk in public, words begin to fall off and others pick them up.

So the word on the street is that you have caught the Twitter disease and no longer think in streaming madman thought processes, but rather in 140 character tweets. The word is that you can no longer be the happy clichéd doorframe that everyone wanted you to walk through.

It has been widely believed that you should check with your doctor to see if you qualify for a pharmaceutical to make you a whole egg again. Who needs horses and king’s men if only chemically happy words will put you back together again?

Who needs anything anymore? You don’t. You only need 140 characters. You only need amusing mottos of self loathing. That’s what you need. You need instant oatmeal memory. Popcorn paragraphs. A grand old basket of superfried clever rings.

You are fast food function key, baby. You make a respectable dent in a noisy metropolis machine. You burn headbanger hot, blow the fuckgasm up, blast the head off of a photo of yourself at half speed.  Whatever anything gets your 140 characters, who really cares.

There are words that show you who you could have been, words that melt away your candle wax face, your cotton candy eyes that got wisked away by the valley birds, your sugar in the dead wind.

There are words that prove you may still have a chance, a blind hope, a vibrating fist in the sand. But no. You don’t need any of that. You only need characters. Characters that support you. And characters that leave you somehow and strangely.

Silent.