(no subject)
I was up writing until 5:40 a.m. last night and now my words have been upchucked and I am drained.
I am between the between, feeling like a door between two mediums. Liquid uncertainty sapping my roots.
My mind is in a house on Rhodos, with LIGHT and air. And lizards crawling up the white-wash, and olives and feta cheese and salt-stained hair.
All I want to do is music but it's 12:30 midnight. So I try bring my thoughts down through words. What can words do which music cannot but my mind refuses to go discernable places. My thoughts are tied with words, the red string is cutting into my flesh. I am tired.
I am between the between, feeling like a door between two mediums. Liquid uncertainty sapping my roots.
My mind is in a house on Rhodos, with LIGHT and air. And lizards crawling up the white-wash, and olives and feta cheese and salt-stained hair.
All I want to do is music but it's 12:30 midnight. So I try bring my thoughts down through words. What can words do which music cannot but my mind refuses to go discernable places. My thoughts are tied with words, the red string is cutting into my flesh. I am tired.