March 31st, 2004
108074053816440659
Head on a keyboard dreaming of self-purpose
it’s ten-thirty. i’m at work half out of protest, half out of frustration. if anything, i think what the internet does most is make the juice cook in my limbs and make me want to cry.
a sea of people both anonymous and known, photos of chevys and wonder-composers. amazing Islam, kitchen remodelers, housewives and geneticists, beat indie artists who do it JUST BECAUSE!
i can’t stand that i don’t know how to manage the haystack of heartstrings pulling me in ten thousand directions and not knowing what to do. i’m terrible at everything but mostly because i can’t be happy and focus on anything.
rough me up, kiss me, drag me to mountains and a hole will wear in my converses. i want to slouch in a hallway overexposed on a shaky handheld camera of stock solarized and burned by some smiling, gap-toothed girl in a hat with hair that’s always gently moving even without wind.
what do you think? do i have a better shot finding some meaning in the realm of sound or sight? i have the sick feeling i’m not going to get anywhere with either, and i should just sink on e now, but i’m too much of a conformist to stop living orthogonally.
listen to tree wave.
