Punch Buggy, No Punch Backs!

It might be hard for some to imagine the most perfect thing charging at you with both fists in the air swinging madly with the sole purpose of inflicting pain on you.

Only before you're shot down in the coldest July, you feel no pain because you were running too.

You didn't stop because you thought that's what was supposed to happen.

What ends up happening is the most perfect thing ending up in your arms.

This happens several times.

Run.
Stop.
Hold.

Repeat.

After letting the little things get to my mind, I have to rely on the big things that I remember.
They may taint my mind with things that need to be forgotten in order to have new memories, but I keep them around, just in case nothing better comes along.
Which is most likely.

Sitting on a concrete porch is more comfortable than you'd think.
Especially with the wind at your back in the coldest July.

Especially when you were afraid of memories when you were little. Crying at Brainstew and a punk. Little children crying because they don't want to be forgotten.

Instead they've grown up together.

And they're fine.

They're still crying.

They still can't move on.

But they still charge, stop, and hold it.

Flash.

Fade to white and back to the real world.

The white was just an infinite florescent bulb.

Don't burn out.