All in a day, all today

I feel like letting my thoughts run wild. the beasts of imagination breathing down my back, "the only thing left to lose are their chains..." or so they say in Marxist propaganda.

They pile on top of each other willing to be burned by the first spark that presents itself. a funeral pyre of ambition. an aimless ramble. the power of expression. it all goes to shit when you take control.

I have so many things competing for control of my thoughts. each one presenting an argument, each one describing how legitimate it is...

...overwhelmed with the newness of conversation, with ambiguity and mystery. I haven't felt this in so long that I don't even know what to do with myself. It seems as if everything is weighing down and tightening and my spirit is lifting, floating. it's all so surreal. ethereal. I am not hungry. Her hair looks soft.

The fork in the road simply points in every direction. "Choose!" it demands so much of me. How am I to choose when the only road I know is the one I walk everyday...the one right by your house, to the left of the abandoned lot, next to the tree growing little by little but stronger everyday. I flutter to the ground without a care.

There is a hole in my shoe and this is all so sensational. There is a whole in the world, and I think it's found wherever we lay our roots, or wherever they see fit you take hold.

... I've walked her home twice now.

A message to a friend. It doesnt matter what was said...its about what was felt.

I am sitting in my bed after a long day of working and reading for school and I saw your name listed on the side of my friends. Its almost fall out and I spent the last hour procrastinating and having an awesome conversation with my roommate. It was enlightening. "Some days are heavy and some days are mean, some days fall somewhere in between." I really dont know why I am aimlessly writing you, but somewhere it makes sense. Somehow the fall time puts me in a spell, binds my emotions and whispers, "remember" as if it were a secret in my ear.

I came across your facebook page (I wish I would have just ran into you), and it hit me. I dont know who you are now. I knew you 5 years ago (was it really that long ago?) and I knew ashley, and we all knew each other, and we were each other's world, and now we are strangers that once knew of a similar time.

I am sorry that this is so overly nostalgic and sentimental. I could have just said, "remember when?" But that didnt seem right. In fact, it seemed wrong. I hope you remember all the names and car ride we shared. All the pain and joy. Its all episodes, seasons if you will, of pain and joy and trying to understand how they are so intrinsically connected to each other. ebb and flow. change and grow. make friends and remember them at odd times of the night.

Don't forget, Lindsey Irvin, because even when I do, I remember. Somewhere, sometime, in the middle of an Autumn night, with my hoodie on and my memory intact, I see us all standing there at 15, wondering what would happen next.

-Micah Aaron Hughes

Introducing Palace Players

It beckons, it breathes, its so quite, and I always leave...


I ran as fast as I could. The car sped away without stalling. I stopped and wondered if the feeling of forgetfulness ever lingered in its simply complex structure, in it's oiled heart. The mid seasons always pass by unnoticed, and unmoved by my persistent begging to stay awhile and talk. The coffee is always cold when the conversations are good. Brian wrote a poem that rolled in my head as if they were die in the hand of one ready to cast. Casting shadows in artificial light never sat well with me. Emptiness ensued as the sun's reflection bounded away off the top of the automobile. Automatically. I am not mobile and fear is never noble. If I could reach into my heart and shake these feelings loose, I'd set them beside you and ask why they were such an awkward fit. You can try them on if you'd like, but they might shrink. Your favorite colours away fade when what's supposed to keep them clean, only makes them a fragment of what they were, once upon a time. Yet they are still our favorite. Like memories, like endless rambling words, like stories that have no meaning...yet they always mean something to me.

...or so it seems.

Dear Bruce

I seem lost in the world of my friends words. I couldnt explain it if I tried, because self pity never gave me good reasons why. I beckoned to my dreams and they discretely hid in the shadows. If I lay in my bed long enough, I can hear your whispers of something in tomorrow, I just cant sit there long enough to tell you if I'm free.

It's all possibility...
maybe...



I just want to say the Bruce Hanglider is my good friend and whatever he says is undisputed truth.

Thank you and now I am going to think.