Thomas Frye

Don't Wake Up Thomas Frye

Attracted to a repulsive force, we repeat the same mistakes because it's what we're used to doing. Deeply ingrained are the search, the preparation, and the ingestion of our own failures in carefully marked increments on the side of each barrel. Tumbling eternal on a clamorous wheel that gets us nowhere, all of our efforts are put into keeping up with this duplication of days, this spinning rodent's cage. We surrender to the slave mentality in a comatose cocoon. Daily, we romance the final crippling blow. We celebrate the crutch that makes us weaker with time, standing in a long line of excuses, funneling what's important into a single prick of the skin. We mistake degeneracy and personal weakness for firsthand experience. It's been a showerless week. A jaw of rotten teeth. I can swim no longer. Treading water is a waste. The name's Thomas Frye, I'm a regular guy, but my mother thinks I'm a disgrace.