and then, there are the stories,
all conjecture and malice, subconcious
making mince of my head.
fighting to convince me that what is here
is not here; what i see there is not there;
instead, juxtaposing pigment, color schemes and bodies
in such unrealistic ways.
or, and maybe this is just storytelling again,
they are actually right.

can't i buy a book somewhere,
a simple manual, with which i could constantly
make everything right, predict the future, kill my hunger
for everything.
answer: no,
but i'll keep trying to make it up
in my head as i walk to class each cloudy day.