but i want to write it now. i want to get it out of me, get this deadness in me out.

dead, no. wrong, wrong, wrong.

anchored, i guess.

every day now that goes by where i do another asshole type thing, every day where i'm a bastard/bitch/fucker, the anchor grows.

it's like peewee's ball of tin foil. except it's the entire ball, not just half.

if you were standing here, right in front of me, and i had my shirt off, i could point to the exact place things sit in me.

the girl is here, for example. my left rib cage. lower part.

this anchor is right in the center of my chest. on the breastbone.

i dont see it changing anytime soon. i dont see the lightness i once had coming back to me.

and yeah, it doesnt bother me much. because there's still a spring in my step.

and it assures that i dont float off into the clouds.