|
|
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
.
(sight like december-something trite): I seem to remember a time when there was [for me] no such thing as bored. At time when the stars burned so brightly at night. If I caught so much as a glimpse, fascinated I would wander out into the open sky and listen to thier song until my fingers numbed and the world that we dwell in swam and wandered away. And I could breathe.
I made things, beautiful things. I learned. I danced. I fucked. I sang. I tasted . and I grew, into more than the sum of my parts. Now though - now it seems that the air around me smells like ashes, and the brightest fire I see is that of my own passive agressive suicide. I need to
.