upward on the cupola of that street

Hey you,

sorry for being a little AWOL lately.  I’ve been caught up breathing and dreaming.  Lots of alternate universes to explore, and very little sleep.  I guess that’s what you get for being young.  Fuck this.

Songs are fake, they make you live in your head, in the moments that exist only because you recognize them from the rhythm of a tambourine.

“There is no shortage of good days.  It is good lives that are hard to come by.”

“A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days.” -Annie Dillard

Sometimes things are dirtier after you clean, even though my father doesn’t believe that, not really.  Everything pristine. Everything like the second-hand – he should have been German.

It’s like, things end only to go on and with their continuous mocking make your life endless.  Think about it, because a day has no end, so think about it for stretches at a time.

Appreciation.  Either, “I appreciate you”, or “You appreciate in value as time speeds up.”

I still want to play the guitar but I don’t think I will ever end up playing what I want to play.  I am not that committed, not to disguising paper or strumming strings.  I guess that means I should develop words.

I think I’ve lost my mind, again, in a better, more precise way than last time. (Hey, it’s summertime so it’s the righttime.)

I still hear opera singers from the windows of my dreams.  They sing from the banks of rivers and boats mired in oil spills.  They cry with sound.  Everything is so dirty, and it never gets clean.



Gripe here!

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