something inside my lover dies as I crush the silence with my sighs
Life is fickle.
I decided to write a song today, but I can't write words today.
I tried: I failed.
I know I can do it, though. Just not today.
It's okay.
But I feel unproductive.
Things are good, though. Serious good.
I've decided to accept my shoulder's decision to explode into a universe of red specks. It is still my shoulder, after all. No use being ashamed. As soon as it tries to marry a gentile boy, however, it's dead to me.
I'm starting a club called Team Heartbreaker. Originally I just wanted a club, but I'm thinking now that it's going to be my Uncle Fungus fanclub. Still, you'll all be invited to join.
Here's my plan for life:
I will SLOWLY create music by myself until I have enough to release an album which I will then shop around. While this is progressing I'll get a job being a PA for television commercials and move to NYC. I'll spend all my time doing those two things and trying to find a girl, so I'll never really progress in the industry and maintain my hopeful PA status until I am around thirty, at which point I will get married. My wife and I will both take the last name Batman. I will have two children, the first of whom will be named Nosebleed Diorama, and the second will be Antique Wicker Furniture. Regardless of gender. When Antique is born I will be interviewed on local radio about my choice of names, unless there is no local radio at that point, which is actually pretty likely. My wife will divorce me because she won't be able to deal with my way of life anymore (at this point I'm sure I'll be a vegan with strange hours at work who exercises every day in the nude in the backyard and spends all of our spare change on records and all of my spare time shooting portraits of fake people on sixteen millimeter and still trying to get a label to pick up the one record of songs that I made years previous). She will win the children and our home outside of the city, and will rename all three of them. Francis, Sandra, and Pygmy Horse Ranch (assuming she raises pygmy horses; otherwise it will be something straightforward and appropriate to, you know, crocheting potholders or something). My children will miss me, but nobody else will. I'll quit my job and spend the last of the money that's in my name (I will have intended to start a few long-term investments for my entire life, but never had enough money to do so) on a plane ticket to anywhere that large animals live where I'll walk around in the woods/desert/taiga/whatever I can hide in until I'm hungry, and then I'll start running and eating plants and I won't stop until I die from exposure/starvation/being eaten by something large (or a swarm of somethings small).
As I die I'll be sad about three things. One is that we'll still be using fossil fuels. One is that I won't have read as much as I will want to have read. I won't find out the third for another few years.
Shut up, kid, I'm working on it.
No matter how still you try to be, if you sit in one place for long enough it will eventually be an entirely different place (welcome to erosion and evolution).
I decided to write a song today, but I can't write words today.
I tried: I failed.
I know I can do it, though. Just not today.
It's okay.
But I feel unproductive.
Things are good, though. Serious good.
I've decided to accept my shoulder's decision to explode into a universe of red specks. It is still my shoulder, after all. No use being ashamed. As soon as it tries to marry a gentile boy, however, it's dead to me.
I'm starting a club called Team Heartbreaker. Originally I just wanted a club, but I'm thinking now that it's going to be my Uncle Fungus fanclub. Still, you'll all be invited to join.
Here's my plan for life:
I will SLOWLY create music by myself until I have enough to release an album which I will then shop around. While this is progressing I'll get a job being a PA for television commercials and move to NYC. I'll spend all my time doing those two things and trying to find a girl, so I'll never really progress in the industry and maintain my hopeful PA status until I am around thirty, at which point I will get married. My wife and I will both take the last name Batman. I will have two children, the first of whom will be named Nosebleed Diorama, and the second will be Antique Wicker Furniture. Regardless of gender. When Antique is born I will be interviewed on local radio about my choice of names, unless there is no local radio at that point, which is actually pretty likely. My wife will divorce me because she won't be able to deal with my way of life anymore (at this point I'm sure I'll be a vegan with strange hours at work who exercises every day in the nude in the backyard and spends all of our spare change on records and all of my spare time shooting portraits of fake people on sixteen millimeter and still trying to get a label to pick up the one record of songs that I made years previous). She will win the children and our home outside of the city, and will rename all three of them. Francis, Sandra, and Pygmy Horse Ranch (assuming she raises pygmy horses; otherwise it will be something straightforward and appropriate to, you know, crocheting potholders or something). My children will miss me, but nobody else will. I'll quit my job and spend the last of the money that's in my name (I will have intended to start a few long-term investments for my entire life, but never had enough money to do so) on a plane ticket to anywhere that large animals live where I'll walk around in the woods/desert/taiga/whatever I can hide in until I'm hungry, and then I'll start running and eating plants and I won't stop until I die from exposure/starvation/being eaten by something large (or a swarm of somethings small).
As I die I'll be sad about three things. One is that we'll still be using fossil fuels. One is that I won't have read as much as I will want to have read. I won't find out the third for another few years.
Shut up, kid, I'm working on it.
No matter how still you try to be, if you sit in one place for long enough it will eventually be an entirely different place (welcome to erosion and evolution).