whispers

i'm in my bed
eyes open as i try to rock my brain to slumber
c.s. pops out of the wardrobe smoking a pipe
"don't worry lad
pain is God's megaphone"
t.s. crawls out from under the bed.
"all meaningful relationships end in pain."
"that's a really cheerful thought, mr. elliott."
i said respectfully.
dylan opens my bedroom window
obviously returning from the pub.
breath reeking of rum.
"gently
do not go
gently" he slurred.
good night! i said.
and he meekly closed the window
but he continued to stare in pity.
nosed pressed against the glass.
t.s. and c.s. ogled
as if i had invited them
into some cerebral slumber party
suddenly a dark figure appeared
towering over the moonlight
"chesterton..." i whispered
chesterton stood like a giant, finishing a hotdog.
he swallowed and said,
as brushed the crumbs from his gigantic coat,
"Indeed that is why the saint is often a martyr;
he is mistaken for a poison because he is an antidote."
what am i supposed to say?
c.s. loves a good fight
and chesterton could write in his sleep and probably did.
t.s. could think his way out of quicksand
dylan is passed out in the front of my house.
alarm
5:15 am
time to shower.
another day