Oh Sister

Buelton, California, 4 a.m.?-

I have lost my journal. It is somewhere between Mary Beth's car and Buelton. I feel sorry for the poor bastard that finds it....

Tomorrow is today, yet so suddenly it is yesterday. The promises made for tomorrow have impetuously arrived, but it's too soon because it can't possibly be today when yesterday is definitely still today.
There needs to be a new term for this time of twilight. Something to do with confession; with being conquered. There is something about it that makes me admit my nocturnal orbit and ferocious urges.
She was married. Is married. Will be married.
I won't keep with whores anymore. I made the promise when she said "I do," but does that count as yesterday, today or tomorrow? Because when I look to my right I am reminded that I have once again shattered my word.
Who decides if it is yesterday, today or tomorrow? If it's God, then I must be him. If it's me, then I must be me. If it's you, then I must be you.
I need a new tense. One that blurs past, present and future together. Not synethesia, nor anesthesia, but something with a bit more swirl.
She said "I do." She was married. Is married. Will be married.
My heart has no shore.
There is something about this age that blurs tomorrow, today and yesterday.