My circle has endless sides. Straight u-turns that leave traces of the past I hide. Lyrics of folk songs, blasting soulful truths in a rhythm of smoke and blues aloof. Backseat confessions wet with curious exhilarations. Childish promises tattooed in French kisses, deliciously imperfect. Pious morals discovered in tomes bled from literary experts. Ink stains and musty books cover the scent of sex. Reminiscing with strangers with whipped cream smiles while denying reality gone astray. Stalled and churning in rutted frustration, every day a four way stop ahead.