Under the wagon.
Welcome friends. Welcome to the very first page of a new notebook. I just scratched out a few lines onto the final pages of the last notebook. When it comes to my notebooks, I can’t say which is sweeter, the beginning or the end.
When it comes to love, for me, the beginning is where my dreams come from. For her, it’s the end that she seems to find relief.
A new notebook calls for a fresh pen, with which I am writing you tonight
New notebook. New pen. Everything else is the same.
Same job. Same cat. Same socks. Sheets. Keys. Bills. Same empty bed.
Now, we’re onto the next page. And 98 more to go.
The ink will carry me through. And I will keep scratching toward the next notebook. Keep drinking till the next bottle. Bullshitting till the next lay.
How long must I rap against her door till she lets me back in?
Forever. Forever more.
There is no more re-entry, unless it is not me that knocks at her door.