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I caught myself reaching for the sedative, reaching for the calming influence of smoked herb as thoughts of you swirl like smoke in my mind. Despite drastic measures and the cutting of ties, I don't need a cushion to catch my fall, for this is not from a great height. Such is the diminished landscape of us; cliffs worn down to gentle swelling hills and obscured truths exposed and stretched to their superficial reality, now part of my horizon.

Despite my deep imagination I cannot find a way to dress you in recognition. It's like a moral question asked in private without audience, do I want a superficial relationship with you, how much smoke am I willing to take in, and wouldn't it be nice to pour a stiff drink and cheers to us? Little marionette man, each person in your life has a set of strings and the outfit they'd like to you wear and wouldn't it feel better to just go back to that? That's the question. Don't I want my own little toy to dress up and call Dad?

No. Trying that is what wore down our skyline. Years of looking the other way and indulging the hollowed stump of a man you have become means years of looking away from the fact that this is who you've always been. Nostalgia alone doesn't cut it for me any more than an attempt at a relaxing drive down a road littered with wheel ending pot holes.

I have to go, things to do.