She mixes 1 part rose water with 2 parts potato vodka, then two maraschino Cherry’s. 
Places her venom in a shaker and makes a few slight jerking motions. 
Pours herself a tall one and looks me over; laughs to herself and signs. 
This little act has got my attention. 
The pink drink matches her nails and lipstick too. 
I have been studying her for over an hour. 
Though I have gained nothing new in terms of deductions.
This is her third cocktail.
She hasn’t actual spoke to anyone all night. 
Jus a few glances and acknowledgements when someone familiar says “hi” or walks by. 
She has short brunette hair. 
Not tan and not pale her skin is perfect complexion.  
Youthful and elegant with a fierce tingle in her eyes. 
The allure is dragging me closer with ever non verbal cue.  
But I cannot move in her direction, and my words have no distinction from silence. 
I haven’t refilled my martini in an hour. 
Put an empty glass to my lips multiple times in the hour too.

Actual Regression 
Falling flat on my face. 

Walking like a fool. 

Stepping over and on everything I need.

Never looking down at my feet,

Laces coming undone.

Finding my shoes are uneven soles. 

Thoughts that never occurred to me. 

Like a bull in a china cabinet,

Or a bulldozer in on a sidewalk. 

Shell would be upset with these cracks. 

Insinuations and innuendoes go without catching a harsh look. 

My actions are never mistook.

Fictions of my actions are never questioned by any one that matters. 

I find myself a replica of the former projections I imposed on civility.

I am a Caricature of I person I never meant to be. 

My own dishonesty haunts me with uncertainty. 

Placing me under a subjective altered reality of someone I was never committed to seriously.

Closing doors that I was only about to open, when I realized the handles were broken. 

They were not locked to me jus impossible for me to gain access. 

Frustration goes on like a bleak misguided thrill.

Countering my disgust with perpetual mistrust of my peers and surroundings. 

I find myself hovering over a black hole. 

But one that sucks your soul, and leaves a little grease in its place. 

To catch the next person up and possible slip them up to, anyone stupid enough to do what this iLLness has lead me too. 

Put this iLL mind in a dream state, because reality can’t equate to the harsh fate. 
Finding no solutions to my endeavors without committing false metaphors. 
Closing myself off from the people that support me because I am so faulty.
My actions have no foundation and I am beyond reclamation as I wither in decay.
Broken from embracing to much excess now these bones are in distress.
Functionality is now a past disclaimer for my new patters of behavior.
Divisions are becoming more obvious even to my own opinions of my distance.
Distractions are less relevant to my ill faculties as I dissolve into less substance.
Reluctant since I have no percussion within and my voice is lost. 
Lack of correspondence doesn’t lead to knowing what people surrounding me are thinking.

Yes red notebook red ink. iLL’s obsessive side….


Ok so you don’t want to serve me or take my money. 
Don’t look at me crazy when I don’t want to tip you. 
It’s not a coincidence that we see things differently. 
So my questions are difficult; So my needs are plenty.
In reality I didn’t ask you to do anything that was not your job.
Maybe my request is on the edge of your duty. 
But I don’t work for tips.
Call me a dick.
Was my request salacious or rabid? 
Fuck I am not even Drunk!!!!!

A Fixture
Something that is always present.

A type that is beyond common.

A typical scene in a series.

Someone that is predictable and simple.

A forecast for ever foreseeable future.

The light holder; The place holder.

Something that ages but never gets older.