You Were My Favorite Moment.

Look at this desk. It's so cluttered. 3 pictures, two portable digital mp3 players, 5 books, one blank halfway through. There's an opened package of fruit snacks, an open package of blue ink flexgrip pens. The mug that always smells of old coffee is on my left. There is a thin, worn pick, a calculator from grade school. My first tuner sits by my side and a handheld recorder for intimate feelings is adjacent. Other things clutter my desk, but they're not worth mentioning.

Look at this crowd. It's so cluttered. 3 foster kids, two portable digital mp3 generations, 5 tools, one blank of half his sac. There's the art kids over there opening their new-age vinyl. They swear that hipsters are for kids, but maybe they aren't--and maybe they are. Who knows. That Nordic boy that always smells of tea is smoking on my left. Coughing up his right lung in the process. My first love sits by the wall, soaking up this genders endorsements while she bobs what's left of her own self-pride. Some selfish kid is poking a hole through the wall and viewing the night life of what's left of it. Of this generation and the one before it. Or is it after? Other things clutter in this mess, but they're not worth mentioning.

I don't know how to end this. So that's about it. Goodnight from a lonely, cluttered desk--full of things that weren't worth mentioning.

Like my digital camera. And my oversized pen. And a pair of arms. And couple of breaths.