i need a recharge from the smell of home. i need to go build something. with saws and hammers. run through the woods. change my oil. get grimy. i need real work. wrestle with the animals. attainable dirt. strength in capability. sweating. muscling. the balance of a worked body. i cant philosophize my fight or flight away.
of course then again nothing is more heavy than having to be there for it i'm tired of supposed meaning. i've never meant anything. i wanna be able to lay my head down and think nothing of it. theres no agenda. there will be nothing more than now.
clouded thickness; sticky continuation of the Most Fucked Up In An Disorienting But Entertaining Way Week Ever. i dont even know whether to bother with the budget hearing for philosophy since its been declared dead. and a club picture? we should just enter a picture of mullet-hawk.
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains. waiting in the wings. comically predictable. fair enough though, ive had my share. let it happen. let it all happen. I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans. ive been bluntly asked for it not to be him, but it already was him, and it was also some others. let it happen, because the only way
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apparently, in lieu of sleep, i missed the best bio lab ever today. it seems all we did was sit in a field and draw pictures of bugs we saw crawling around. now thats my kind of biology
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sheryl describes her 'darling apartment' in the historic district of florence: '5th floor walk up with 15 foot ceilings, and the place must be 300 years old.' i wish i could just fully realize that that sort of thing is a feasible option. but i feel tied, financially and otherwise.