touche rilke, sure if it's ment to be there, it will grow - be fostered, and if not it shall fall away and perish, shrivled and forgotten on the floor. how great that sounds, how - poetic. i, however, disagree, not just becuase of the friends i've seen, wrists dancing on the edges of razor blades - attempting to slice into that part of them that just wouldn't grow, or grew too fast and like ivy on a tree, left them strangled, suffocated, covered.

i also disagree becuase of those i've seen chasing with lungs full of determination and pride toward and ending that wasn't written for them, but to which it would be inevitably bestowed, a degree labled M.D. that will provide the lost pianist a lifetime of medical malpractice.

so, shall i wait to see what will become of me? shall i see which layers of my onion's core make my eyes water harshest? or shall i chose for myself? free will motherfucker - let me do what i want to, and end up where i choose? why wait to be peeled when it's the juice you want anyways?