Second day of the month, the moth goes up in flame as it shoots up from the tip of my thumb and sparks the same as it ever was.  Everyone know the tune? Soon my numb and dark gangly body will lay horizontal and press into the mattress like a headached eye into the shoulder of a loved one.  This , that, and the other thing occupy my mind if not my time, and my mind time is working overtime blindsided by the morning tide and this beriding sense of being deprived wanting the mind time to be mai tai time and for there to be a new episode of parks and recreation on hulu, but two and two do not come together four that one.  We write because we have to at times, but is it a craft?  Does it speak the truth, and does it speak it beautifully?  Great questions to ask if you are being interviewed on the radio, or signing to a bus full of ninjas each chained calmly to his bench.  But what of the craft?  When can what is asked be not the subject of laught    her, and i both have questions, seemingly, seamingly without answers.  we love.  one love.  without answers but moving forth, one day at a time, honestly giving much, for the purpose of sucking out the marrow, and profiting not but for ourselves.  That all mankind without exception be welcome.  What is it going to take?  To make or break?  Up above it all kind of love, a whole lotta friends, two birds, and maybe a mountain or two.