On my resilience as it laughs at me about a mile down the road.
I just don't feel like writing. Isn't that something? Isn't that a strange novelty? It's only that the spirit doesn't move me, or maybe that my only impetus is discomfort.
No, that's not true.
I don't want to talk about myself. Here, then, is the problem. I want to talk about safe and stale things like death or love. My father's absence and what it's done to me (if only he knew) or my mother's selfishness in all things but money (at least she has that to give). Here's a movie hangover, maritime law, dreaming not in black-and-white but in Sirk. Maybe I'll show you some pictures, if this is a harbinger of inspiration.
You people feel to me like a failed relationship that I'm too selfish to maintain. There, that; the one place in which our three hearts -- mine and theirs, mine sprung from theirs -- meet. Nothing to offer because there's nothing I'm willing to sacrifice. Isn't a relationship about compromise? Isn't that what they say?
No, that's not true.
I don't want to talk about myself. Here, then, is the problem. I want to talk about safe and stale things like death or love. My father's absence and what it's done to me (if only he knew) or my mother's selfishness in all things but money (at least she has that to give). Here's a movie hangover, maritime law, dreaming not in black-and-white but in Sirk. Maybe I'll show you some pictures, if this is a harbinger of inspiration.
You people feel to me like a failed relationship that I'm too selfish to maintain. There, that; the one place in which our three hearts -- mine and theirs, mine sprung from theirs -- meet. Nothing to offer because there's nothing I'm willing to sacrifice. Isn't a relationship about compromise? Isn't that what they say?