(no subject)
more words i couldnt say.. but i did talk to her tonight
Is it something that only occurs on the rainiest of December days? (rainiest? ...December?)
When your clothes are soaked and your hair is clinging to your head, pushed down by the cold weight of rain. Your clothes are aching for a bath and you're aching for a change, the only time i've given any money to any pan-handlers since i've been here has been when i've needed it the most. I guess half of this is just metaphors for things that don't really make any sense anymore. If they ever even did. They just come out of over-analyzing every single tiny thing so often in your head the details are more familiar than the picture they make up.
And for the (X)th many time I find myself living off of song lyrics. Not so much through, but off of. How relevant and cliched and terrible all the words have become. How beautiful, to be caught in the same syllabels and the same beats and the same articulation that's failed for so long.
I hate OC transpo, today more than ever.
And every single one of these words is meaningless.
And it's pause or stop because i've mashed fast forward and remind too much and now they're broken. That's a direct allusion.
One time seamus told me i'd speak about my life in terms of a vcr reference... and i didn't believe him.
One time Claire told me that when I'm upset I'm far more eloquent (in any other words)... i think perhaps when i'm writing things down... but if you were to talk to me i'd barely be able to studder or cough out the word "eloquent"
I guess there's no real point to this...
I started writing this at about 10 o'clock... and now it's about quarter after two.
I guess... i don't know what i guess anymore really.
I guess I'm terribly naive. (In oh so many respects)
I guess I need to grow up
I guess I'm done again
I guess I need to stop listening to 'twilight' or 'a six inch valley' or 'the trapeze swinger'
And i guess i need to stop sprawling this words that don't really mean anything because all i can say has already been said and all that i can do has already been done and i can never be what i want, so we're down to ugly truths to scrape us by, or adaptation...
I guess i really don't know anymore.
when you sit with your notebook in some
coffee shop on Portage Avenue
and the rain comes down, the sirens
moan, the waitress leans her cheek
against the window
and for a moment both of you believe
you can hear the city breathing
you are both tired, you want to be done
Is it something that only occurs on the rainiest of December days? (rainiest? ...December?)
When your clothes are soaked and your hair is clinging to your head, pushed down by the cold weight of rain. Your clothes are aching for a bath and you're aching for a change, the only time i've given any money to any pan-handlers since i've been here has been when i've needed it the most. I guess half of this is just metaphors for things that don't really make any sense anymore. If they ever even did. They just come out of over-analyzing every single tiny thing so often in your head the details are more familiar than the picture they make up.
And for the (X)th many time I find myself living off of song lyrics. Not so much through, but off of. How relevant and cliched and terrible all the words have become. How beautiful, to be caught in the same syllabels and the same beats and the same articulation that's failed for so long.
I hate OC transpo, today more than ever.
And every single one of these words is meaningless.
And it's pause or stop because i've mashed fast forward and remind too much and now they're broken. That's a direct allusion.
One time seamus told me i'd speak about my life in terms of a vcr reference... and i didn't believe him.
One time Claire told me that when I'm upset I'm far more eloquent (in any other words)... i think perhaps when i'm writing things down... but if you were to talk to me i'd barely be able to studder or cough out the word "eloquent"
I guess there's no real point to this...
I started writing this at about 10 o'clock... and now it's about quarter after two.
I guess... i don't know what i guess anymore really.
I guess I'm terribly naive. (In oh so many respects)
I guess I need to grow up
I guess I'm done again
I guess I need to stop listening to 'twilight' or 'a six inch valley' or 'the trapeze swinger'
And i guess i need to stop sprawling this words that don't really mean anything because all i can say has already been said and all that i can do has already been done and i can never be what i want, so we're down to ugly truths to scrape us by, or adaptation...
I guess i really don't know anymore.
when you sit with your notebook in some
coffee shop on Portage Avenue
and the rain comes down, the sirens
moan, the waitress leans her cheek
against the window
and for a moment both of you believe
you can hear the city breathing
you are both tired, you want to be done