Jul 24, 2009 18:12
purely premature, this summer is half way over.
polished off a bottle before i started on some words.
it's nearly august, summer is in bloom.
i've done everything but work on my writing.
i need a story to tell, but it's apparent that i'm afraid of such accuracy.
kafka esque imagery is beyond me. I can draw you a picture, it's never what i envision (but it looks cool anyway).
am i expressing myself or practicing muscle memory?
a red shaded lamp tints my vision rose. I have half a basket of golf balls to my left and an empty bottle of jameson to my right. he's upstairs riding his skateboard because he gets agitated when he's stagnant.
i once again prefer my windowless room to daylight.
I can't find a dollar, and I've offered my labor to nearly a thousand. (Thank god i haven't lost my first, like the others). I need to start saving if i plan to depart. Is it of any use? No where in this world can i escape these economic blues.
My mirror reflects not only my image, but my recent happenings. Adhesive memories since the age of fifteen. It feels good to sit in my room and explore the 1960's.