in celebration of july 2nd and the 1-year anniversary of my last entry
i've been writing in a yellow 50-cent 100-page college rule spiral-bound notebook sometimes at night before i go to sleep and slipping it back under my bed as to not rouse suspicion of heresy from the order of silence. i think the notebook just lays there, under my bed, resting on the newly painted concrete floor like a nine and a half by eleven inch ghost skiff in a darkened sea of blood. on this sea also rests six speaker cabinets, inside of which only two speakers actually work, on top of which rides a vintage quad tube receiver supporting a record player and quite some expectation for future tune purveyance. there is also a green velvet chair that continues to be borrowed from another ghost in another rouge sea, the bunkbed my father made, and a plastic hutch holding some white shirts. this is my new home. i live in it alone. the top mattress is bare, like a wisened old man that just stopped growing it up there. his scalp is stetched and scattered with spots. it's a lonely looking mattress and i may need to find a hat for it.
inside the notebook there is a growing population of words. they are, i hope, being joined slowly by intendment and flow. i don't know, my mind is absent of order and impetus when i try to think on the pages all crumbled up in the sulci and gyri of my mind.
i play music with my friends.
this has been your annual update.
farewell, pharaohs and females.
inside the notebook there is a growing population of words. they are, i hope, being joined slowly by intendment and flow. i don't know, my mind is absent of order and impetus when i try to think on the pages all crumbled up in the sulci and gyri of my mind.
i play music with my friends.
this has been your annual update.
farewell, pharaohs and females.