I'm nearly ready to cease my attempts. Your voice comforts me a little more than it should, but it's not worth cyclic rejection. I've memorized your answering machine. I often hear it in my sleep. And only once in the past two weeks have I heard your voice.

"Hello. ... Hello? Hell-o?" I doesn't matter that you didn't hear me. I heard you. I hung up, and knew I should have left it alone. It would have been more than enough for me, but perhaps you might enjoy the conversation of downward progress we always tend to share. So, with mild despair, I tried to get another connection. Stronger. Clearer.

Fortunate for you. Lost on the globe where cellular fingers can't reach. Where the ringing, singing tones of denial are the chorus. I knew I should have left it alone. I knew I was lucky enough to hear "hello."

Luckily for me, I had no words to shed. No travels to divulge. No adventure or meandering generality to speak of not yet exhuasted on my tongue. So I've saved myself awkward sentences better left to the erie silence.

Sure, I'd love to speak of Sunset Picasso, football in the drying mud, helping to paint a patch of some 800 square feet, or nearly drowning in the Salton Sea. None of it interests you, though. Or me, for that matter. It's the poem in my sleep. The slumbering author of false hope.

Friendship is often wasted on me. This time, though, it's starting to be vise versa. I'm starting to be wasted on friendship... It's a haunting feeling. A ghost of emotion clothed in the purity acceptence. It's a phantom hand and spectre hug.

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