thursday.

sometimes the only thing to do is to eat dinner standing up, wearing overalls that should've been retired probably two years ago, wearing the gray converse that should be replaced but for the loyalty that is stronger than reason.

sometimes the only thing to do is to push on through the day, well aware that the weather is dictating the removal of the outer layers, but too attached to the idea of january to respond to this.

sometimes the only thing to do is to make eye contact with a friend across the table, and breathe as deeply as can be warranted in a roomful of people.

sometimes it pays to keep a close watch on the fluttering in a heart.

sometimes the only thing to do is to sit on a couch and ignore the madness that surrounds, hoping that the other person will take care of everything, while knowing that there is inherent judgment in the sitting.

sometimes the only thing to do is the only thing to do is to try and write something, anything, even though the lack of subject is apparent and agonizing.

sometimes it is enough to hear the cracks in a back, knowing that with each sound comes a release, although it is never clear where the release actually lands.

always hopeful it hits near the heart.