...let's talk about the end of the world as though we've already imploded
The world spins as I go to classes. Books abound, and I am thrilled.
Tonight I am sad, as I learned that my best friend here at school will not be here for the rest of the semester. I foresee myself alone in the trenches, the shells and mortars of alien students raining down upon me.
Due to the above, I suppose I will be going to the Mates of State show solo. And Joanna Newsom will have to wait until San Fran this summer.
I have a fever, and I my throat is now in a state of gravel-resolve, issuing a resounding, warm hum that bespeaks sickness and utter radness. I love losing my voice. I need someone to hit me with a freakin hammer.
I have prayed lately that I would burn with the desire to be re-molded for the kingdom, encountered in a moment by the shocking realization of my future usefulness for God, but the more I pray, the more I can see that this moment I await is probably a season, and the re-molding should be, rather, current malleability, as opposed to future change. So I'm waiting and listening and walking and reading, and God is good. The ills of life seem less acute when I dwell on my adoption as a son of God.
I had a conversation the other day that made me quite uncomfortable, and to her I answer, ummm.... yes, I guess, but it's complicated. You will not understand what I mean, I'm sure; I just wanted to vent.
Love is a curious and complicated thing - not the romantic form, necessarily. Love as a notion and entity is gray, and I watch it with perplexed and intoxicated focus. At the moment, I am fairly consumed with something...
Underoath will be playing in LA on April second. I thought that if I were to tell you early enough, you might be able to go.
Well, I should continue reading William Faulkner. All I want to do is sleep, or talk to someone who inspires me, or write. I will dialogue with Faulkner and forget that he died alone...
-L
Tonight I am sad, as I learned that my best friend here at school will not be here for the rest of the semester. I foresee myself alone in the trenches, the shells and mortars of alien students raining down upon me.
Due to the above, I suppose I will be going to the Mates of State show solo. And Joanna Newsom will have to wait until San Fran this summer.
I have a fever, and I my throat is now in a state of gravel-resolve, issuing a resounding, warm hum that bespeaks sickness and utter radness. I love losing my voice. I need someone to hit me with a freakin hammer.
I have prayed lately that I would burn with the desire to be re-molded for the kingdom, encountered in a moment by the shocking realization of my future usefulness for God, but the more I pray, the more I can see that this moment I await is probably a season, and the re-molding should be, rather, current malleability, as opposed to future change. So I'm waiting and listening and walking and reading, and God is good. The ills of life seem less acute when I dwell on my adoption as a son of God.
I had a conversation the other day that made me quite uncomfortable, and to her I answer, ummm.... yes, I guess, but it's complicated. You will not understand what I mean, I'm sure; I just wanted to vent.
Love is a curious and complicated thing - not the romantic form, necessarily. Love as a notion and entity is gray, and I watch it with perplexed and intoxicated focus. At the moment, I am fairly consumed with something...
Underoath will be playing in LA on April second. I thought that if I were to tell you early enough, you might be able to go.
Well, I should continue reading William Faulkner. All I want to do is sleep, or talk to someone who inspires me, or write. I will dialogue with Faulkner and forget that he died alone...
-L