last night i cut off my pink and white bracelet burned on the last day of my cit trip this summer. it was grody, but it was also wonderful. my wrist misses it, somewhat. i dont know what i know...but ive been thinking about it. so far, this is what i've got: i know this is real. i like literature. et ca continue...
i cannot sleep. i cannot do the TRIVIAL amount of work that needs to be done for tomorrow. i cannot get myself something to eat. i cannot stop drinking all the nasty fizzy drinks in my house.
"What's the big idea?," she said. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," he responded. "You most certainly do," she spoke, staring into his eyes. "You ripped my heart out." "Did I?" he said, and then walked away, eating crackers and whistling. so wonderfully magically appropriate. andheartssemicolon
"...i am not infected with ambition. I am perfectly content, sitting accross from the horse barn at 3pm in the afternoon, i wait for art to create me." (from work-fuck problems by bukowski)