.9 in my right .45 in my other hand
before i say anything i'm not listening to the band rage against the machine playing a song called "inside out". my quotation marks were correctly placed. i'm listening to inside out playing "rage against the machine". inside out was a 1980s orange county hardcore band fronted by de la rocha before he was in rage against the machine and rage against the machine's name came from inside out's song "rage against the machine". inside out played hardcore the way bands do now but did it over ten years ago which is radical and they're probably the best hardcore band ever.
everything's been crazy lately including an entry i made a few nights ago that had to be deleted for certain reasons that won't right now be made audible. my hands are shining a certain red right now reminding me of this new philosophy in my head relating the colour red to the absense of verbal communication leaving the colour red to maintain within me it's own identity gone without being polluted by the english language and by talking about it i am coming dangerously close to contaminating it with the lack of what which makes it special.
hope keeps springing up from concrete like flowers in the middle of chaotic downtown but someone's shoes keep coming and trampling whatever hope's springing mindlessly up. there's no real motivation in this whole act except motivation itself. everything that's growing is growing only out of a will to grow and not out of any great philosophy. philosophy's dumb i'm the real genius and whoever disagrees had better argue with me so at least someone's saying something. i don't know what i'm going to do today i have a thousand different plans running on different crazy tangents and probably none of them will come true. nothing i expect ever happens. i'm always crushed by car mechanics. what in the world? i work tomorrow easter sunday from 7:30 to 2:00 i'm pretty sure. i don't work today but i should be to keep away whatever feeling i'm feeling. i'm listening to growling guitars and stomping drums and figuring on all of this. the real people are wearing their mouths covered up somewhere waiting for something to really say you know? you don't know. if you know say the whole thing. i've got to rob this thing of personalisation. actual events and happenings are better saved for stories in diners smoking cigars on empty stomachs getting sick and sweaty and smoking still god in heaven how i should be drunk right now.
hallelujah! praise the lord! i don't know. my old ideas of an angry zion are brimming again. de la rocha will do that to you. all i keep thinking is this story.
there's this guy running down the street in slacks and a shirt and his top button's not buttoned and he keeps looking behind him. our hero's running from three men in suits. they're pushing roughly through people on the sidewalk chasing our hero like mad yelling crazy things. a brown car wrecks into a parking meter near our hero and points out of the window yelling at our hero as another man in the car gets out and runs over the hood of the car chasing our hero madly and another guy climbs out of the car and throws a cup of coffee at our hero and our hero runs around a corner and crashes through the door of a chinese restaurant and during the chase his heart was pounding really hard and the whole thing was urgent and suddenly the scene's hardly urgent. the scene's quiet and relaxing but his heart's still pounding because overshadowed by the music in the chinese restaurant a girl says something in chinese and has the most beautiful voice ever.
today i was supposed to kill myself but i haven't. i'm waiting for my mom to leave. doesn't anyone want to do anything today? there's a certain art in smoking with complete strangers. i like complete strangers who have cars and no plans.
everything's been crazy lately including an entry i made a few nights ago that had to be deleted for certain reasons that won't right now be made audible. my hands are shining a certain red right now reminding me of this new philosophy in my head relating the colour red to the absense of verbal communication leaving the colour red to maintain within me it's own identity gone without being polluted by the english language and by talking about it i am coming dangerously close to contaminating it with the lack of what which makes it special.
hope keeps springing up from concrete like flowers in the middle of chaotic downtown but someone's shoes keep coming and trampling whatever hope's springing mindlessly up. there's no real motivation in this whole act except motivation itself. everything that's growing is growing only out of a will to grow and not out of any great philosophy. philosophy's dumb i'm the real genius and whoever disagrees had better argue with me so at least someone's saying something. i don't know what i'm going to do today i have a thousand different plans running on different crazy tangents and probably none of them will come true. nothing i expect ever happens. i'm always crushed by car mechanics. what in the world? i work tomorrow easter sunday from 7:30 to 2:00 i'm pretty sure. i don't work today but i should be to keep away whatever feeling i'm feeling. i'm listening to growling guitars and stomping drums and figuring on all of this. the real people are wearing their mouths covered up somewhere waiting for something to really say you know? you don't know. if you know say the whole thing. i've got to rob this thing of personalisation. actual events and happenings are better saved for stories in diners smoking cigars on empty stomachs getting sick and sweaty and smoking still god in heaven how i should be drunk right now.
hallelujah! praise the lord! i don't know. my old ideas of an angry zion are brimming again. de la rocha will do that to you. all i keep thinking is this story.
there's this guy running down the street in slacks and a shirt and his top button's not buttoned and he keeps looking behind him. our hero's running from three men in suits. they're pushing roughly through people on the sidewalk chasing our hero like mad yelling crazy things. a brown car wrecks into a parking meter near our hero and points out of the window yelling at our hero as another man in the car gets out and runs over the hood of the car chasing our hero madly and another guy climbs out of the car and throws a cup of coffee at our hero and our hero runs around a corner and crashes through the door of a chinese restaurant and during the chase his heart was pounding really hard and the whole thing was urgent and suddenly the scene's hardly urgent. the scene's quiet and relaxing but his heart's still pounding because overshadowed by the music in the chinese restaurant a girl says something in chinese and has the most beautiful voice ever.
today i was supposed to kill myself but i haven't. i'm waiting for my mom to leave. doesn't anyone want to do anything today? there's a certain art in smoking with complete strangers. i like complete strangers who have cars and no plans.