Interstate 40, Cycles I-V. (for Joe M.) I. Flying over Atlanta neighborhoods segregated by winter woods. A bare-tree parapet, pipeline for rusted cars and thieves.

A volcano erupts in Yellowstone Park causing the sun to turn red.

When I was writing this story I woke up in the night with this strange feeling that Matty, the sincere person who thinks she's a Christian, should be left behind. How many people believe they are Christians but have never really been saved?

What would make God so angry he would smash the world with a hammer? The kind of world that we had created in 2095.

"You can see me?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid thing to ask. "Well, of course I can. That's why I asked who you are. You look like my foster sister who died recently." "Your foster sister?"

6TH MARCH, 1999 11:00 PM Hello, again,

It's building. This angst. Thick black bile. A heavy weather. Avenues empty, paths harden. This heat haze, can be grabbed. I sit in profile. Hopper honed. Framed by skylight,

Bashing my head against a wall I cant make you love me Cant help the way I feel just wish I could make you see You are in my thoughts every day you bring a smile to my face

He’s looking for someone, Someone he kissed, but he cannot find her He’s not sure she exists. It would be just his luck If she was just a dream, A fictional girl That may never be seen.