(no subject)
I was really onto something today. If you don't believe me, just take a look around. I took a nap on this sheet of paper, I let a leaking tube of oil paint stain it. I am responding to despondency. There is a pile of books that I have never read. There is a pile of books, I'm not going to read them. They have secrets inside that other people already know, so they are wasted secrets. It's really good, I promise. It's not that good at all. I keep imagining all of these conversations with uninteresting people. I think I know you, don't think you know me. Do you know me yet? I wore fake hair eight times. I caught my finger in a screen door when I was eleven. I have a split nail on my second-one-in-from-the-baby toe. I was chewing on the inside of my cheek today and pretending to be someone else because I was at work, and it made sense that I could taste blood.
There's a reason for none of this.
There's a reason for none of this.