i’m fresh out of wine. no more cigarettes to roll. inability to muster up a few clever words.
writing helps me think. a thousand hollow thoughts overflow my bucket of a mind. writing is the little spout at the end of the bucket that lets the water pour out gently.
my spout is busted. everything flows out at once. but i have no desire to alphabetize them.
maybe i’m confused. but even that little withered cadaver i lived through seems to have shriveled up into dust.
indolence is a sin. indolence to love. to feel or even show that you feel.
see you after this short intermission. i thought we already were in an intermission. no, it’s a prelude if anything. now the lightshow starts. watch closely, or you’ll miss the fireworks.
i don’t even know what i’m saying anymore because apparently i’ve said nothing at all. or i’ve said to much. i always ‘said too much.’ well thats what you get when you have a brain. geniuses know when to not speak. yeah, i’m a fuckwit.