Giving in to gravity and other poetic missions.

Sometimes you want to blame everything on drugs, but you know it really wasn't drugs. It was you..you stupid moron, and other voices I hear in my head, through a decent headphone set, as I plummet down some 20,000 odd feet..dangling on a parachute—silent as a bug. 

The clouds were a whisper made of dew, and Gravity was a lusting wench.

In between this gravity and fall was a waterless ocean of azure blue, one that had no waves..just a few clouds. 

It was a bright sunny day, and as I fell, suspended on my parachute..looking down at my boots, they needed a bit more shine.  

Ho hum..another day, it'll all be fine.