Hell, it's good enough for my grandpa, it's good enough for me.

[cutinhalfblues]

I'm tired. I can't sleep. Inecessant thoughts born from a long dead era. (What an era it was though.) And to try to slow those thoughts into oblivion, thoughts from an era much longer dead. Logically settling on a future era not yet begun, when he dies and I'm draped over his coffin crying while his parents glare at me, (even though I tried to stop him, I kicked the shit, and I've always liked them very much.) This is of course, if us scum were even let in the door to mourn. I got up to smoke, and my head returned to the first thoughts anyways. I might as well be drunk dialing when I think like that.
I seriously considered doing what Mike did and hopping a plane to California, and worrying about the rest when I got there. (John from Cinncinnatti is a good influence on me.) I'd do it to, if it weren't for the whole Mexico thing. And that other thing that stops me from going too far with any of my plans. Let sleeping dogs lie? Live and let die? I don't know the appropriate phrase I'm looking for.
The longer I live like this, the more I can feel it. Dig. A Junkie without dope. A lover barred from love. A loner in love and never alone. Strung out forever. Etc. It all begins to blur together and not much else matters. Except music. Very important, music.
You just wouldn't believe the week I've had.