"I miss the days when a man could have a seat in an old vinyl booth, slide across the cushion shined up with Armorall, and order a fifty-cent cup of coffee."

"So the coffee is three bucks now. So what?"

"So, now I have to go outside, at least three paces from the door, to light up. Coffee and cigarettes in an all-night diner, son. I miss that."

"It hasn't been that long ago, except for the fifty cents a cup part."

"It's been too long."

"Like this meeting."

The clink of silverware on porcelain, the sizzle of the flattop griddle in the diner's kitchen, these sounds filled the air and complimented smells of bacon and pancakes. Snatches of conversation could be heard over the movement of city life.

The two men contemplated one another. One, an old man with the sharp eyes of a hawk. The other, a younger man with the wary eyes of a rabbit about to run. The old man knew the younger one was scared, so he kept movements large, slow, and measured.

Finally, the grizzled veteran of wars fought at home and elsewhere sighed.

"Kid, I know you did it."

"Did what?"

Instead of answering, the old man rolled his eyes. He took a long sip of his almost-too-hot coffee, added a little more creamer from the tiny metal pitcher that sat next to the salt and pepper shakers. He sipped again, nodded, and reached into the jacket of his cheap sport coat.

The rabbit flinched.

The old predator smirked, tossing a clear plastic bag on the tabletop. It was like a ziploc, but not as supple. Crinklier. It was permanently sealed with a red band at the top; any attempts to reopen it would end up with the word "evidence" broken and split apart. The next best thing to tamper proof, it was certainly tamper evident.

That last thought, fleeting as it was, made the old hawk laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?"

"You, mostly. But stray thoughts make me giggle in my advanced age, too. So. You want to run, or what?"

"Why would I do that?" He licked his lips, tensing. He glanced around at available escape routes.

"I won't chase you, kid. I don't do that."

Somehow, that made the younger man even more nervous.

"Why would I run, anyway?"

"Because you killed a man with a forty-five caliber handgun. You shot him six times. You picked up five shells. The sixth shell has a partial thumbprint on it. I found it. You didn't. Ballistics have been run on the slugs, and there's no match in our database to the barrel, but I figure, if I were to search you right now, you might just be dumb enough to have the piece tucked in your waistband. Or maybe you're smarter than that. Maybe that gun is gone. Maybe you're super smart; lots of people have forty-fives. Maybe just the barrel was tossed in a river somewhere, and you were slick enough to pick up a replacement barrel at a gun show. With cash. Out of town. Maybe even out of state. Could be all of that is true, and it's all damned clever, too, except for this troublesome little hunk of brass here. Wrapped up so pretty and nice in a plastic bag." The man's speech seemed to have worn him out, his breath was a little hollow. He coughed, sighed again, and sipped his coffee.

The rabbit was now white, but still not running.

"What is this, detective?"

"Breakfast."

The waitress reappeared as if by magic, and an omelette appeared on the table next to the cup of coffee. The old cop smiled up at the young lady, thanked her, and he proceeded to butter his toast.

"Seriously."

"Seriously. I don't joke about food, kid."

"I guess you're a man who doesn't joke about much at all."

The detective shrugged, ate. Watched.

Tentatively, the younger man reached for the plastic bag. He held it up, looking through it at the man who had invited him to the diner.

"Pretty crazy of you to just toss this at me, if what you say is true. I could just ... take it. Maybe shoot you. Maybe just leave." With that, the kid flashes a chrome 1911, complete with what looked like pearl handles.

The cop's response was to scoop up a mouthful of fluffy, deliciously cheesy breakfast.

"I love how this place is just greasy enough, y'know?"

The rabbit cocked his head at the predator at the table. "I threaten you, and you just...eat?"

"I don't feel threatened."

The younger man couldn't help but bristle a little at the subtle insult.

"Kid, if I wanted you gone, you'd be gone. If I wanted to arrest you, we'd have done this in the dead of night when you were tucked in bed with your sweetie-sweet. Naked as the day you were born, snatched up and cuffed before you knew what day it was or where you were. Instead, I invite you to breakfast. I didn't invite you to the station. We're not in an interrogation room. We're at a diner. Jesus Christ, you're thick. Smarter than most, but still so fuckin' dense. Flashing me your nickel-plated sissy pistol like it's my first time. I'm a long way from prom night, sugartits." He stops, takes a bite, sighs. "Goddamn, we never catch the smart ones, really."

"You never caught smart ones, huh?"

"Sure. Had to kill a few more than I caught, though."

Just like that, conversation was over.

The rabbit watched the hawk eat, sip his coffee, and finally lean back in the booth.

"Old man. What is this all about? Can I just, Idunno, go?"

"Sure. You never had to stay."

"What about the shell?"

"What shell?"

The plastic bag slid off the table and into the rabbit's pocket.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no? You just said 'what shell'!"

"Fuck's sake, kid. Take the shell out. Wipe it down, wrap it in a napkin, toss it in the trashcan in the bathroom. Just like that, it's gone. Like it never existed. Throw away the bag somewhere else, but make sure it ends up in an actual trash can on the street. Go be good to that woman."

At this, the rabbit's eared perked. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is, she's worth it. You did the right thing. Be good. Do good."

"What do you know about it? Aren't you supposed to take me in, or something?"

"My job is to catch bad guys, kid."

"Murder is bad."

"What you did was kill a man. That makes you a killer, not a murderer."

"What's the difference?"

"If you do her like the last man did, you'll know."

With that, the old man left the younger one to pay the tab, and they never saw one another again.

The gun cocks, ready to fire at whatever stands in its way. The barrel meets its exact copy; two weapons stare each other down, waiting, daring the other to make a move, the same as their wielders.

Two people, two guns, two sides of a mirror.

Neither side willing to lose.

The opponents stand an arm's length from the mirror, their middle ground, guns mere millimetres from touching. Sweat forms between palms and pearl grips as they continue their staring contest of will. Both eyes hold a certain crazed quality within them that would make a person wonder if this dual was proposed by clear minds - though no one is there to make that observation.

Their nerves stretch tight but the silence stretches on. Both are ready to shoot; their fingers balancing on the trigger, guns ready to fire at the smallest flinch. The tension builds, and, with hearts racing and lungs heaving to catch up, it hits a peak.

Two lips twist into a deranged smile, eyes wide and fearful. Both see a brutal killer within the other, and a tormented victim within themselves. They will not allow the other to win. They will not be the one to lose.

Moments before the mirror shatters, a voice echos through the space.

“I win.”

Music saves me.

It did many times when I was younger,

Me sitting on the bathroom floor trying not to think about how much easier it would be to not be

And the sounds of Tyler and Joseph by my side to remind me I am not as mad as I seem to be.

I remember the day I locked myself up in my father's room.

Contemplating.

Plan in place.

It would have been so cruel to do it there, leave him with no answers

But like most suicidal people, all I wanted was for the pain to stop.

I was blinded by it, nothing else mattered more.

I couldn't see any other way.

But I didn't want to die.

No one necessarily wants to die.

If life were kinder, people too, it might not be so.

If we were taught how important it is to listen to and respect one's own self,

Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad.

But life is a mess by nature, like the rest of the chaos of the world.

And I didn't understand then that it was possible to not hate myself so much.

It's weird, the things that make me stop in moments like those.

A lot less frequent now but it slips by when I'm in scrapes, a little temptation from some curious, unseen onlooker

That day in particular, all I had to do was close my eyes and let it overtake my senses.

Before You Start Your Day by Twenty-Øne Pilots began to play.

His voice was... Comfort.

It was peace for a wounded soul.

I did a little shitty ballet in the quietness of the room.

I cried.

And I left.

I don't tell this story because I'm trying to pull any pity.

We're all mad here, living in a world like this.

I'm starting to understand that in that regard, I could never be alone.

I just don't know any other way to describe the kind of hold music has on me.

Whether to save,

Or to destroy,

Bringing me back from the edge reborn everytime.

It's the flickering, guiding light of a candle in a world of gray and darkness.

Sometimes,

Nearing a panic attack over one of the many fragile things that bother my existence,

Nothing else can soothe me

But that otherworldly magic.

Maybe it's a crutch

Like my sister believes.

Going to it so fluidly with no expectations, just the hope that the sounds I find may come to my aid

But isn't that what people do with their gods, anyway?

And if I can find something a little closer to my fingers than a silent deity, well, I think it's best to be grateful for the existence of the mad men that create such artistry and

Leave it at that.

Don't you?

I am overcome with awe at the deep compassion and love of our fellow beings show even when living through their own hardships.

I become overwhelmed with tears wishing I could give more than advice from my own experiences.

The deepest form of true love is having compassion for another and at least trying to understand and help them realize they are not alone.

The capacity we all have depends upon how much we can trust each other.

I have deep gratitude to the Dali Lama for promoting peace and harmony, also proving these aren’t weakness.

Music is a river. It pushes me along, keeps me afloat, and always shows me something new. Melodies have been a constant in my life.

My mother is a singer. Growing up I would trail after her though weddings or funerals. I would wait in the back, quiet in my seat, watching as her voice brought people to tears. To this day I am in awe of her. I can feel the music pour from her soul, and I feel it in mine.

I began playing the piano in the first grade, the notes flowed through my fingers and into the air. Suddenly, I was the one creating the music I so desperately loved. I will always be in awe of the piano, a strong and timeless vessel of music.

The world has changed so much with the advances of technology. One of my favorite advantages of this new world is our endless access to music. At any moment of the day I can listen to any melody I desire. Songs that move me, I sit with my headphones in and chills pour over me.

So, I think the greatest reverence is music. Music is primal, necessary, joyful, sad, dramatic, full, it is what brings us all together.

She walks the tightrope of calamity

Hoping one day she won’t reach insanity

She comes from a broken family

Strung by tragedy

That’s the very cause of her loss of sanity

She used to dream of having her name on billboards and magazines

Now the only thing she has her name on are pill bottles, snuffing out her dreams

She clings to the surface

Always tilting but never falling

She has no hope that someone will be calling

And yet she’s still walking

Out of sheer faith;

Like a blade clinging to it’s scathe

Pleading for a chance

For the will to crawl, to walk, to dance

Bottling up the words of despair

Hoping that she’ll find some kind of care

But a pleasant smile and kind eyes

Is all it takes as a disguise

She looks to be fine

But she’s still waiting for her stars to align

And what you don’t know is she’s hiding under a hood

Constantly telling herself all will be good

Hiding her imperfections and tears

Only out of sheer fears

For the future

For those who persecute her

For the obstacles to come

And yet she’s still walking

This tightrope grows narrower by the day

Trying to wash what little hope she has away

She gathered her broken pieces and stitched them all together

Whoever said soft skin can’t be leather

She’s drowning, suffocating, gasping for air

She’s falling in her own despair

Ragged and tired, she’s a child wanting to be hired

Not out of desire but only necessity

“They’ll only think less of me”

Those words burn in her head

Only making her wish to be dead

And yet she’s still walking

Still walking

Still stumbling down the path of life

Reaching each day with a new strife

Hoping that one day there will be an end to her tragedy

Only for the saving of her own anatomy

She believes in a better future

For the optimism

For the hope

For the belief

That one day things will be different

Hell is:

Having plans to become a Veterinarian

only to have a ninth grade education.

Loving children who do not

love you back.

Knowing that I survived death

three times only to end up a shut in

with a brain injury No pitty please!

Loosing everyone and everything you ever held dear and knowing you will

never have that again.

Loving someone so much that you knew the best life for them was to let them go so they could be happy, not once but three times.

Hell is seeing the world pass by,

when I used to be in the fast lane.

Real Hell is when others know you and try to tell you it could be worse, or to look on the bright side, but they cannot understand or comprehend your life at all.

I still wonder

WHY AM I STILL HERE!

I'm wearing boots, still I'm running on nothing but caffeine and fumes and all these memories of you.

Tired.

So tired of this hot and cold and nobody knows which way they went, or which way to go.

Yesterday I....

Lost a glove, lost my mind, lost a few good friends of mine.

The explosions don't feel or sound so bad.. When you're inside them..

Singing and dreaming and sweating and screaming.

As we dance to the rhythm of machine gun drums.

And drones.

after a line by Aleathia Drehmer

She looked on while one

cracked the eggs and

measured flour, and one tucked

candles into buttercream to light,

and then they sang for me—

daughter, daughter, wife.

I felt full without a bite.

Was 40 like this for you,

all those decades before?

Your wife and your son (my father

who fathered two in turn),

gathered about a glowing cake.

1964. Your chickens would have

given the eggs, your cows the cream.

You a farmer who had

come home from war,

married, raised my father, tilled

land many miles from here.

You are buried, now,

many miles from here.

I think of you anyway, how you always

touched the ground: feet planted or

hands in earth, solid and knowing,

certain of what you grew.

My eyelids are as heavy as lead

Yet my eyes fight to capture the light

The more I push myself forth,

The farther behind I seem

When my fingers reach out to grab the light

It turns its back on me

The brilliant light slips through my fingers,

Leaving nothing but me and my empty mind

Forced give up, with pained relief

My vision blurs with soft, dry tears

And the last thing I see

before the darkness

is the shadow of the light

that turned its back on me

...the blinking bar on an empty screen

that is simply waiting for me