Money machines cost money that you don't have until you build a machine to get you that money.

And well, plainly put, that's a little disconcerting.

That's one of the reasons that I figured I'd spin this dream cocoon to live in. But it's not the only one. You see, in here it's soft and silky, and the sunlight just barely worms its way in glowing with the softest golds and whites. In here, there's not too much to worry about.

Do you remember the time we walked across that bridge in the rain looking for a grocery store?

All that water was coming down like teal corroded pennies, clanking down in the night with that heavy sound onto the dim cobblestones.

I wonder sometimes what would've happened if I'd decided to just live there.

I could spend my time smoking cigarettes in that humid, rain saturated air and huddling under 7-11 awnings so that only my shoes get wet.

That's what those boys were doing. Do you remember them?

I've been dreaming a lot about you recently. Well, you and this girl I went to high school with. She has a husband and a kid now, you know. Maybe two kids, even. I used to spend a lot of time with her when I was sixteen or so. She was incredibly beautiful, and I of course played the anguished fool admitted into her innermost confidence solely because of my timidity, my awkwardness, and my not even registering as a possible romantic interest.

Let me tell you something about the pervasiveness of loneliness. It looks for me in crowded places. It seeps in through the barricades of people and responsibility that I construct so painstakingly. It murmurs a cool kiss to my heart even when I hold your warm hands; it makes me look away and prepare to say that nothing's wrong.

"Nothing," I lie.

Nothing may not actually be a lie, perhaps it's just inaccurate. Maybe I don't know would be closer to the truth.

Sometimes, when it's been a really long time, I peel the skin back to see if you're still hurting me in there.

You take my breath away like a sucker punch and so I sit down hard. And then I can't help but remember you in a flood.

I wrap my hand around my head,
 wonder if it gets better,
  think that it cannot.

This is what skin is for: to cover up everything but this shaky smile and these doubting eyes.

Maybe one day I'll believe in God. And then maybe I'll believe that you believed, too.

Wouldn't that be nice?