December 29

Coffee shops with lavender carpeted ceilings and low hanging chandeliers, imagining smoking pot in antiques showrooms, with all this sort of valuable shit around, shining and glimmering, I would look around at everything and build up a tolerance for that sort of trash, and eventually feeling like all the silver spools out for golden twine... it is all a run off from that one mighty stream, and we are all just small animals, becoming obsolete as the water lessons and we dehydrate quickly and forever. Lava lamps broken into piles and amorphous shapes, calling attention to everything, sharing the love and filling in the blanks, suddenly arriving and we are all exploding inside our hearts, fuselage imploding on sound barrier breaking shuttle and the pilot turns out to be drunk anyway, one drunken cough and the plane lights up like a parade, and having a nice day besides, going out for a moment and sharing the stories that define heart beats, the things that make us move.

Ten thousand year old park blocks
tracing out the negative spaces
shade the contours of her body
from every angle
and she poses eternally
forever a charcoal fragment
of my life
no modesty
desire threesome
mindfulness/awareness
productivity/content
empathy/shared emotion
.....
divorce the mind
we are expanding into oblivion
but hey we met at a strange time
as the buildings collapse
lets finish each others sentences
and marry our thoughts
at a drive through in Las Vegas
they have heaters around
and one day a man from the north arrives
 constantly talk of weather when such
imperative decisions are evident
in daily breaths and for daily bread

I can't stop thinking about sushi
and a life ending smile
something easy to accept
for what it is
a personality behind it that sapped the faith out of me
I encountered the girl of dreams
though I can only now tell it all as a fable
something out of a fairy tale
and I am no longer the protagonist

I am only a pathological liar. 

December 28

Enter the sanctuary of bright lights and pretty people. It is a synagogue. A cathedral of liquor bottles lined up squarely around the bartender/god and everyone worships the courage chemical. the ability to say the things you wish you could say if you were sober. of course you have no limitations which can be good or bad depending on the crowd. could get laughs and pussy. could get your ass kicked. could wind up alone and sad because of either outcome. potentially when living in that shrinking room, the floating caskets of the mind drifting down beneath the streets, in the sewer with the rabbits, the sewer rabbits that exist in fear of cars and dogs in suburban neighborhoods, modeled after ancient television shows. Ancient televisions shows! Treated with the same historical importance as ancient scrolls of writing upon the invention of ink. What animation! Bodies frozen in history like a mistake worth repeating. Have any doubt? Cross your fingers and dive in. Your wishes will be granted.

Park blocks away and find myself increasingly nervous and reach closer. Bump into a bunch of people. Feel judgmental eyes. The concern had to have roots in the THC and the lonely paranoia. With no back ups to talk to and discuss the terrible drug with. No other companion to understand become on the same exact level that I was on. And the anger subsides because I now opened the floodgates. One night. Drunk as I leave the abode (waiting) wearing appropriate winter attire and sufficiently intoxicated to enjoy the walk. My guess would be a mile and a half. Nothing too horrible. The cold night doesn't help. Bundle up and set out against time and the elements to fall in love at the English bar drinking Pilsner and Newcastle and whatever. I'll drink what she drinks. Match her. Talk to her. Never giving a fuck. But hey, these nights won't last. One day I will be looking back. This is the time to take initiative. Never take baby steps. Just jump into it with a force not to be reckoned with. Your impact with the water will cause a ripple effect beyond the measure of richter scale and tsunami warnings will be issued to those without impact zones. They chased them down and subdued them by force. We are no longer welcome.


--

Explore the city for whatever language is left and use that countered sobriety for something good, strong and meaningful. Feeling too week to exist this isolation and return to a place where communication with another human being is an actual possibility. "You have to like to be alone." But there is no shame. Never living in pain. Rhyming sentences and not letting meaning pass through. Takes a minute to understand. Especially when so sedated. Bite the tongue and sit quietly resting with or without the shoulder pads necessary for resting. Lazily sleeping around. Become the anti hero of your own story and fill all of our hearts with eminent fear and joy tossled together. they are blended into a fine dust that we inhale whenever positive vibes fill the void beneath our breath. there are reasons behind such geometric symmetry. there are such occasions where the spirit of an individual is questioned and twisted to the very core. these are telling times to discover true nature. how can one deal with a broken heart? how can one deal with the thoughts of knowing all three most loved women in life are gathered in the very same place at the same time and when that warmth is so far away the slightest chill feels that much colder. there is a bite in the air. not of cupid's arrow. he is drunk and a poor shot with whiskey breath and a secret communication with the devil himself beneath the view of cute angel, bottle glass lines his cage. fermented fruit in varying decay lay around his crib or his grave site. either or. this is the time that we find ourselves. and all of us suddenly understand one and other on such a deep level. oh my god, I think constantly. How could I have been so cruel? ignored the ones that could have given me shelter that I looked for and all of the rebellious natures of cliques and friends and we all hated each other for reasons that are entirely fixable today. nothing can last forever. that kind of grudge-holding kills everyone involved swiftly and without mercy.. thirty years down the road.. all at once.

the air inside my lungs. my broken neck at the bottom of an infinite set of stairs. the stairway to heaven most lively. trying to type as fast as I possibly can and writing freely letting my fingers guide the train of though in my head due to the slight lapse in time between the two processes. words are falling and cascading but there is a bit of control involved unfortunately my critic is not shut off and words that come out are being told through subconscious process to sound a certain way and to make logical sense. but if I've lost you at this point then we can see clearly an accidental irony in the face of all golden gods, letting the wrods take hold in jazz rhythm. knowing damn well how a standard piece of written material should appear but considering it a jam session with words. everything from the language represented all at once.

sunrise in bedrooms of ex girlfriends
running through my mind tired of having holes in shoes
falling down onto knees until bleeding
picking up all of the raspberries we could carry into two buckets each, there was a breeze in the air and our long hair swayed in the breeze, we were children and still are, trapped somewhat in limbo, confused and wondering how it all happened in such a manner. I'm still the boy, the child, in the forest, wandering with friends and carving trails through a meadow and the trees laughed at us for our evident joy in their presence, we all basked into each others species, opening to the true heart of the earth, the soul of the world in grains of dirt, the shrubs and quietly whispering dead trees, cut one down once during a day, for some arguable reason, something live an avenged lover. we tried to cut one down for no reason and would up trying to expedite the process with fireworks in the wilderness. it was not wet. we were fire hazards and we gave no shits. shot bottle rockets at one and other and tossed mortar shells through the air at targets or at a silent salt water bay... lit the fuse and threw the damn thing at the last minute. now would I be more cautious? I could have blown a damn hand off and how could I be typing this as quickly as I am. only listening to second song since beginning of stanza. flying until my wings hurt though I don't care to land simply plummet into the ocean. splash. 

dec 24

eyes adjust to red lights and glow in the dark stars, watering darkly at the edge of consciousness, we are exhausted and happy to be living in such a frenzy, something fast and excessive, a binge of all sort, fill the memory banks and reminisce about each later if it at all pops up in the process of all my standard bullshit. words are flowing and continuing to crash into one another, festive and exuberant, using large words and understanding the legacy of good writers, though breaking the spell into a musical framework, something cosmic and the spark of a new inheritable trait, despite all side effects and synth backing tracks, all for visual entertainment purposes, could face the wineter cold alone and without an escort, the words spill like water over a clfifside and exhaustion takes full attention suddenlt. required to pass out in order to have a decent christmas

Dec 19

Take on the role of the constantly dissenting opinion. Always looking at things through an outside perspective and distancing away from situation in order to maintain logic and integrity whilst skirting on abstract idealism for the ability to push boundaries. Wonders if it means anything anymore or if it simply an argument for no sake at all. For the belittling of the people and the best interests being expressed beyond conscious thinking, there can always be others making decisions for us, we can be rats if we wanted to, we could fall to pieces and smile broadly, we could become skinnier than models and call ourselves beautifully underfed, we can throw ideas around and try to satisfy everyone. conceptual art instead of abstract art. something to represent the music within. my clothes, old and tattered, represent something about my character perhaps but this is rarely a conscious effort, when it is it pushes absurdity in my mind, I feel like a clown that child run away from, an accidental terrifying influence and we are going somewhere so fast toward oblivion and beyond our recognition. Line everything up before it happens before the explosion that kills us or sends us out of the blast radius, something that either decimates into nothing, into dust and atoms, into particles and we try not to feel like we've disappointed ourselves the whole damn time. we never fell into those shattered categories. we broke all the rules and found out nothing new about ourselves aside from fragmented glimpses at our psyches. this is for introspection. a cohesive unit and a teeth grinding headache. I feel that crippling anxiety I though had dissipated into thin mist many ages ago. back before cell phones and hover boards. back before such ideas were ridiculous and I saw the cities in ruins before I ever stepped foot in them. I remembered the carnage before it happened in a time lapse. I felt the exhaustion of a day spent strangely. aloof on the couch and feelings of inadequacy pervading everything. negativity and anxiety. no smiling, the doctor ordered. couldn't keep the wind off our backs. couldn't sell ourselves short. glorify and testify. the words are important, ultimately. but the meaning is elusive. open to interpretation. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I will live freely. I will exchange frequencies with televisions and communicate with satellites. I will be flying through the air when the world dies.

dec 17

I went with intention to find a place I could spill out my soul. I could writhe in emotional agony and have the company of others to add all of their unspoken melancholy. We could make eye contact and hundreds of lost memories would suddenly explode into full clarity. I could be open. I could think about beautiful women I've neglected on accident. Paths cross once to never cross again. I could think about how I cling to many memories of the past rather than make new ones. The sharing of dreams in a non-intimate setting. Sounds off like a grocery list. I want to see the world from space. I want to travel vast distances in a hot-air balloon. Ride an inner tube down the Mississippi. Across the lazy Columbia. Down filthy Thames. I want to drink straight from the Nile. Instant sickness.

I thought I was clear enough. Move too quickly and get dizzy. Naturally I wound up back where I started. Interrupt my thoughts with a cute song and a soul-crushing realization. A listless, wandering soul. We are alone in this. You have your life, I have mine. I can't have yours and you can't have mine. We can't have each others.

Everything I love will be in the same place at the same time and I will be in the airport nearby. A rogue wave down the willamette to wash it all away in a flash. Hopefully I feel something then. But now I'm just sick and troubled. Concerning myself with trivial matters. These things will change. What I was two years ago. The strange and horrifying passage of time. It makes no damn sense at all. What did I do with all of my time? Did I do okay?

I dreamed I was a senior in high school again. The highlight of a life many times. The dreams to look back on. To learn from. To forget. But I did not take full advantage. I couldn't. So much time gone. How did this happen??

---------

*I don't understand how you made that connection?*

Well the thing is... each of us have our own individual maps of the world, in a sense. our brains are vast neural networks with erupting stimuli abound. Each new stimulus will bring up, from the depths of the hypothalamus, old stimuli that the brain decides is relevant (beyond our conscious power). This is what means to recall a memory. It is through a huge network of connections. We all have these and they are all different from one another. It is impossible for the same sequence of events in a lifetime to leave the exact same imprint in two individuals. The odds are against unknown clones. Say I mention a flower, a red rose specifically. Your minds eye has an image of a rose in it. How this came up and what all it reminded you of is not the same for me, or anyone. It fluctuates. It is not static. I could ask you to conjure up an image of a rose in a year and it will be different. (for me.. I think of pedals falling slow motion into a calm body of water... then a flash of my mothers garden before the bushes outgrew the fence savagely... thorny beautiful bitches of a flower.... and more... freewrite on this if you would like to at one point or another...)

This network of connections is called the schema. It is a mental framework where stimuli (the five senses) are kept in an intricately woven maze. We do not have sophisticated enough technology to analyze this data aside from isolating areas of the brain where activity is present given the stimuli of a rose. Different areas would light up given the image of a rose versus the scent of one due to the power of scent for more permanent installations in this network to draw from.

If we all shared the same connections, we would be machines.

and blah blah blah

dec 14

there are simply no words to say. there was no logical motive in the act therefore we cannot surmise any artificial motive for the rest of it. it is nonsense and all that will follow are gun law arguments with two sides of surreptitious opinions because they are afraid of alienating themselves by putting their feet down and landing on a concrete belief. they would rather be wishy-washy and skirt around the truth they hold in their hearts to write about later. they would rather lie than expose themselves and such is the way of life. and this is probably why horrific bullshit like a school shooting happens in the first place...

----

morale low. sickness hits and headaches are pounding like the doors of opportunity slamming shut never to be opened again. millions of them. its true at this point I'll probably never be a famous astronaut. I'll probably never be a major league pitcher. sound engineering is closer to the truth though the language they speak exhausts me quickly. the technical terms for things and all I understand is that signal flow has something huge to do with it all. why the microphone works best for what. why music sounds like it does. beautiful moments capture in elegant precision. no one has ever felt any better about themselves.

dirty girl. in the bed frame of mind. the lack of social connections and the alcohol to kill creativity. the heat coming from the floor. the hardwood feeling something like ice beneath the feet. the ideas of transportation through space and time. the feeling of spreading seed across the country to see which climate life grows best. stay in the west and south west and fail to see the in between. I wish to spend a year in every single state in the next 50 years. if this is possible tell me where to start. if this is impossible, let me dream. god, let me dream you up. let me conjure you despite logical fallacies and all of the learning I've had. "I've got to drive to Pasadena to see ya" that wouldn't be horrible, let me meet up with you and we can exchange philosophies in person and personal. intertwined in sheets and feeling like forensic scientists for the minds of each other. great minds should always fuck each other. as I've said. and let us wrestle and grapple and feel the energy passing through our systems until guaranteed that nothing else but truth is left. there might be tears of joy or sadness but we are expressing ourselves until pitch blackness evolves and revolves around and around.

---

the words are garbage. I'm garbage. is this poetic? or is this shit. I've said out loud much better things today. but they are gone.

----

 come home to find cockroach on its back
watch it struggle and feel cross breed empathy
before squashing it
how did you get on your back, little fellow?
when the bomb drops
I'll be gone
and my material possessions
will be yours to live inside
so don't worry
you will survive
always
in damp apartments
when the rain comes
here is shelter
though I do not wish
to find you
among my things
breeding in my shirts
or something worse
though I know we share this earth
I know also that you will outlive me
once we end in calamity
so forgive me
you can proliferate your species elsewhere

 ---


hey mister
do you drink all of that beer yourself?
hey mister
do you want some help?
me and my friend, I mean
we're underage and all
but I'm sure you started at our age
if not younger
help us out buddy
you don't even need all of that yourself
not possible
we can help you
if you only let us
give us a case
I'll give you 20 bucks
my friend will roll you a joint
just go back in
buy a blunt wrap
and a case of better tasting beer
for yourself
and he will oblige
take a few moments to roll
one rack will disappear into our backpacks
then so will we
we don't have our licenses
you don't have to worry about us driving
we're just trying to get some girls drunk
so we can get laid
again and again
take advantage of them
you know how it is

hey mister
let us haunt you for the rest of your life
let us ruin dreams
we'll be on the cover page
having killed our peers and each other
drunk and underage
in a drunken rampage
at this moment
reading the article
you will light the joint
and reminisce about your old times
joyfully
oh my, how the times have changed old man
you're mid twenties
old man
take a look at your life
we were just kids
but we still are!
just trapped
deep inside
mounting tragedy
of reality
don't wake us up!

dec 13

feel the passage of time wash over me like a hurricane all in one second. sudden recollection of time spent and the amazement of childhood. never forget the bigger ideas about smaller things, so ignorant in every aspect and never walking through town. waiting at the bus stop, kicking rocks and waiting for the incredible ride back to the basics. some hill top home in the trees. no worries for complaints by neighbors, my god. no nervousness whatsoever. easy to hide somewhere when necessary. all over the property, shining of achievement. glorious for the moments spent. it becomes a magic trick and the topic is never discussed again later...

time as a 13 year old. 11 year old. teeth falling out. I wiggle them to just get it over with. gone are my wisdom teeth. experienced braces for the first two years of high school. something grand for timing. wore a strange jacket to school. something from the seventies. for no reason whatsoever. it is about the movement of the hands. it is about framing pictures intelligently between scenes. rats all clamoring for attention at the same intervals. but I love it and I miss it. the playground. the giant tires and the swingsets. many played basketball and others wall ball. dodgeball in the gymnasium. football players on steroids verses many of the rest of us. borderline athleticism though it was never a full commitment. never specific enough for lasting effect aside from level of health. we walked past each other through the halls. i stole a chair from the science classroom. we made pyramid in the hallway. no one had a smart phone yet. things were more simple. beautiful and innocent. dumped party garbage in the forest though forgot to check the back yard for beer cans or bottle caps. they were littered everywhere. angry and vengeful parents call up laughing. that damn son of ours, messing up our waterfront property and being dangerous with his friends. all controlling. and fuck.

I remember rides in the M5. I can recall tree forts.

dec 12

last night, I met up with an old friend, insomnia. sometimes she is an evil bitch. other times she guides my hands through creative endeavors, writing or painting or some shit, early into the sunrise hours of morning. other nights like chinese water torture. like last night. everything I cannot change swarms through my head. she pushes hope out of my brain and fills in the gaps with mournful regret. with lost love. with what could have been. she was a child with a magnifying glass. I am an ant. I tossed and turned under her watchful eye and her bad energy haunted my every thought my every dream inspired by desperate longings and impossible situations. I imagine all of the hours spent staring at ceilings on top of tough mattresses and send shivers down my own spine. It is cold. The covers are not yet helping.

2:20 am

I've developed an addiction that is powerful like nicotine after a second time quitting, then the seventh, though it is unrelated to chemicals. We are at warfare. Senses alert for opportunities to satisfy craving. The fear of nervousness. Without the pack. Without the patch. Driving along the coastline with windows rolled down. Sunglasses are on and everything feels perfect and incredible. Sudden realization that this life is real. Always reminded of the best moments. Spectacular powers of observation. Placing hands on shoulders with a grand memorization. Mesmerize the minds and feel blank walls placed strangely around the room. The blank faces and the empty stages. This is something tangible and outside of any duress. No stress no setbacks. A pack a day to abide by it. The rule. The notebook and paper. The ideas for stories. The execution of rants. Some based on ideas. Reminders and hints at past occurrences. Like the Ferry to Seattle for a music festival we attended in the rain after a party at a cabin out in the woods. Along the lines of the ability to execute a grand idea. It is not about the accumulation of ideas. It is to put them in effect. To translate into new social laws. To change the course of history. The current of the raging river. Heading elsewhere. Away from all right ways and ancient understanding. To be future minded yet wary of the past. Never forget what defines you. You have so many stories. Bursting. Addicted to printing words. For speaking in ritual to an audience of one though directed towards different entities most times. Nausea drags the creative self out and back into a slumber. Nice to know you and to appease you. 

dec 11

horrifying negative energy. get me the hell out of here. there are topics to graze over that make us stupid and simple minded like the wounded animals we are. only intention for survival but via the best and the most extravagant means. helicopters and burning fuel and everything. my brain can't tolerate waste. it can't. it doesn't allow me to enjoy things sometimes due to this. I think about ocean creatures I may inadvertently be killing by neglecting to recycle. I think about the plastic bags in landfills multiplying.. and wonder if it is even humanly possible for me to live well without impacting the earth itself in a negative manner. I think about small change when I drink ten dollar beers at pubs. Every sip tastes like a quarter and may as well be one. The taste of blood in my mouth when I bite my tongue when I my body disagrees violently. Sometimes I shake and spasm. I just can't stand the broad sweeping sentiments. I can't use the word 'can't' anymore. It is gone. It must disappear. Be gone foul demon. You are worthless to me. Forever.

Keep everything light. Just under the surface. Make independent films from scratch tracks then revise twice then tear it apart and start from the drawing board. Polish off a handle of sailor jerry's to reminisce freshman year of college and every year of high school. Remember drinking in parking lots with the windows down, blasting the best tunes. These permanent fools. Forever suspended in oblivion. I'm entirely included. Killing the planet by living on it. It is the system itself. Everything is set up with materialistic gain in mind therefore it is a culture to crush on the skulls of the weaker. Constantly. To rise or die. To love peacefully and to live on forever.

we all beating hearts. we shouldn't forget that we are all breathing the same polluted air. we are using the same words. the same transportation. we forget we're all connecting and no one ends up giving a shit in the end. it's do or die. so just die.

psychologically analyze the results. the vacations. the sun as a necessity. the cold front coming in and the layers come on. it makes you appreciate the sun so much more. it makes everything better. and worse. the cold. the weather. the people. the permanent places in my heart. sink into me. make you appreciate everything more. because otherwise it all dies. it all dies anyway. find a place to make yourself worthwhile and involved in the world.

do not die purposelessly.

you are so much better than that.

dec 10

forgetting birthdays like license plates numbers as they speed under the walking bridge, the freeway, headed anywhere, I imagine them just taking the closest exits and going in the smallest loop possible. It would take a long time for me to recognize the pattern of the same couple thousand cars. Maybe never.

----

dec 9

the initial momentum was like a clock ticking though once it built up it became rapid and pounding. her eyes were blue and her hair smelled blonde in the outcome. the outgoing vibes were one of friendly comrades... the skin smelled used... the eyes appeared to be lying despite the words coming out of the mouth and we were instinctive in our behavior at that point despite all of the wonderful cues. the big words thrown in now and then but used over and over like a drummer and a drum fill. just to fill in space between parts. something so important and crazy. something lunatic and warranted. something effervescent and in control, somehow, simultaneous.

dec 8

the joy of walking through a pretty neighborhood in the morning
there is a bite in the air
it vitalizes
we share a common lung

road kill

all garages become storage units
we have too much shit
cars have to park outside and endure the weather
some die of exposure
others step over the roasted skeletons
and thrive (drive)

abstraction. parking spots I'll never find myself.
stairways walking up to unknown patios
invisible palisades
in the morning

fallen leaves underfoot
death is so fragile

every time I lay down I feel like I'm in a coffin
lowered underground six feet
uprooted flowers on top of me
spare me the sincerities
I'd wish them all to be screaming
because I miss them not because they miss me
but I can never assure them fully
that I'm listening

vibrant movements on the walk
dancing steps and following trails
made by others
love fed by lovers
eaten hungrily by wolves
night-sick and burrowing into shelves on clay
the solid and hollow earth
the burning center is a myth
we are the burning center

----

write joyously about a morning sidewalk but titled it something grotesque and negative

'dying slowly and painfully'

though about a nice and joyful experience through the trees.

then do the opposite

meaning 'pretty morning walks'

though the content, a poem probably, would be about dead animals in the streets and neglected love and worse.

----

trees grow through power lines and vice versa
reaching upward to illuminate television screens
I mean everything so dearly
I hold them so close to my heart
though they would never know
anything other

----

had been full of such inspiration and a great amount of it became lost in translation

---

feeling like an astronaut without a space suit. flailing helplessly through a vacuum burning alive and freezing to death simultaneously depending on which part of you faces the sun at the moment of evacuation. when your life flashes before your eyes will it leave you blind? that would be nice. otherwise it's just a huge veil of images with no connections, no meaning, no stanzas in this poetry. your meter is a fucking mess. though it's fine. I'd rather you slur your words than hold your tongue. There is so much expression to share with all of the rest of mankind. That is your purpose. I guess. I guess I believe in concrete written word to propagate my legacy. No matter how small. the act of writing is simultaneously the act of remembering, forgetting, and also communication. in the most basic sense, communication. maybe also a form of time travel, as I've said before years ago... it's written down somewhere. I believed that writing is a form of this kind of time/space teleportation because the present me writing this material is the past me from your perspective. I'm writing to you from your past. Which is my present. Which becomes my future. Then I can look back, like turning around suddenly when you feel like someone is following. I will ask myself, "Are these words still mine? Or do they now belong to someone else?' and I'll have no answer. Past me has no answer. Present me has no answer. Perhaps future me... There is the disconnection. I experience a strange kind of deja vu mentioning the thoughts of the past. I feel the moment I wrote them, in a sense, departed from the alcoholic delirium between the years. the movement and forward progress (in most things) though some things stay the same. the better parts improve I hope. present me? I am sitting in a white dress shirt licking nature valley bar fragments from my teeth sipping on rum and coke. The couch is comfortable though I sit on edge like that euphemism for a captivating movie. This is not a film it is a life with only fragments of video footage. Every has the capacity to save everything these days. Our lives become social experiments. And soon I will exit and walk down to the bar, thinking about life with all my heart.

Dec 7

write a concept album about details of the daily experience. score a symphony and title it 'Rome' . frozen mind just simply listening and realizing an overall lack of energy. the kind that furious rotation can resolve. we'll get there one day.

all the stories. your masterpiece will be entitled 'missed connections' and will be the legacy you leave behind. we will infinity find ourselves in conversation. we will be present and confident in a sense rarely expected. esoteric yet sophisticated. warm though with clear concern and clear design.

'subtract me from your heart'

some familiar expression of longing.
it resounds through every valley and reverberates every cave
all progressive motion
toward a world
of
idyllic
mutations
of truth

but then entering quickly back from abstraction. we digress. let everyone know what makes you tick. there is a determination centered. And a time commitment to some technical success in coordination away from....

listen to yeasayer. 

-----

10 pm

let your self be crushed by dissonant waves. in keeping the status quo you kill, through subtle increments, your adventurous spirit. the one that remains beyond anything else. even if it all crumbles and dies in a gasp.

what the hell am I talking about?

-----

sleep and louis-ferdinand celine 

dec 5

trip over the necessary words. use cheat sheets. lapse of time. time lapse. looking back on hours spent though they are multiplied hundredfold. simply no time to create in this sense. filling the hours with engineering work and bass parts and more. calling out the click and falling out of line. keep from us and our canceled motivation. we get along just fine. just alright. everything goes as planned and they'll never expect a thing. the new technology. in the face of awful contraptions that compartmentalize us and make us less human. though they are convenient but it is a game changer. no one reads everyone is self conscious on social media and everyone is proud of their monetary conquests. live the dreams. fall to pieces.

dec 2nd

I contemplate the devolving sophistication of our culture... for my own sake... for the sanity of the mind of a writer... The more content the better from a marketing stand point. (Look at Stephen King or Grisham or Patterson... they never stop writing). Often a higher quantity of 'product' reduces quality all around. This is a double-edged sword. Our culture is a hyper attention-deficit, over-medicated, over-populated conglomeration. We all play follow the leader though at the rate at which we are following currently, this can only be a downward spiral.

I contemplate the idea of quantity over quality. Sometimes I think I'd rather create one masterpiece and enter directly into the reams of history after I die than create endless amounts of shit to become a celebrated puppet in our contemporary culture. On the fronts of celebrity news magazines or some such drivel.

Huge masses of trivial information bog down potentially enlightening information. So yes. Quantity is good for a marketing standpoint because most marketing geniuses are the ones smart enough to exploit the stupidity of the masses. Stupidity meaning the attention deficit over-saturation sort of thing. We can't expect them to listen unless we repeat ourselves 500 times a day. Does it bother you to be a gimmick? Wouldn't it be nice to be celebrated as the anarchist you are in your heart? To be lauded. Loved.

I'm just afraid that no one will ever expect quality out of the products they seek. Everything might turn to shit. 

----

Staring at the sterling 5 string slowly spinning on a page that can be purchased directly. Drool over it for a moment and never forget and then contemplate the idea of a 5 string bass with low B which would be a flat in my tuning. It would be a good idea, maybe, to disguise freshly sour milk with instant breakfast before ingestion. To trick the body and the bank account proper. Would work fine. Witnessed low rider and smoke out. The bathroom flooded and no videos went up. Something personal and alone. A problem? The way with words. All lines rehearsed. Very illuminating. Broken etiquette. Not true you would never know when to yell. Yell always. Be heard and make an impact. Be loud and respected simultaneous. Yell to yourself. Find words where necessary and take sleeping pills that make consciousness waver like drunken sailors fresh to port, feeling the earth beneath them sway like the great ocean. Like sewer rabbits darting fearfully back beneath the gutters. A whole inner city jungle down those pipes. Creatures convalescing and growing out of morbid curiosity. The motivation for life? Morbid curiosity? This body is a prison or a temple or a passageway. Depending on how your brain developed. When did the authority figure in your life chisel the ideas into your head that you hold as your own. Until reaching the age of reason, though many never do, young death or sheer stupidity, or fearful conformity, or worse... Then you question with full intelligent capacity. Seeking out that small high. Percentage of users over do it. And all lights go out at once with the final breath of Chicago. City streets, cars splashing through puddles, rain and drizzling opinions, opening eyes in the rain as the sky tears across into a giant ravine, the sky an open wound. crying tears of greek gods who exist though no one believes in them anymore. their temples are now tourist traps. hordes of camera-wielding vacationers, trampling the sacred solid and capturing the soul of a place, the life essence with a retractable lens. they wear pastel colors and sun hats. dark sunglasses and foreign languages. american english? this is not the language of the gods and it is often clunky when compared to a sophisticated ancient language. there is beauty to be found rather than mere communication. but we've reduced the societal language to awful grammar and spelling correctly to be a form of autistic savant syndrome. we have forgotten how important it was to keep intelligence at high esteem. to support each other as human beings in this rat race of existence. holding hands and skipping toward a brighter future. but no. we will accidentally step on others without ever having a negative intention toward another in the world. there are unforeseen consequences to every action good or bad. planting random flowers. maybe they grow thick roots and kill the garden. all the while blossoming into something beautiful. lay me to rest in that garden grove. let me sleep in the forest among the damp leaves and menacing by night trees, tall and majestic as fuck. let the contemporary cultural linguistics slip into my speech. euphemism. we are a reflection of it and vice versa. do I feel represented properly? 

dec 1

heart beat feeling the tantrums by the rich, waiting around to be a millionaire and stuck up, everyone, feeling the reserves of horrible beauty, the kind that ruins your face in the end, you can never rid of it, wait around to get drinks bought for you, a false atmosphere despite drinks and colored lights, there are hundreds of ways to fall apart though you choose the easiest. old neighbor falling apart into french language beverages and a secret code. they all are conspiring into something new and unforgettable. something transcending weed in small quantities and all inclusive. wondering about me. calling the shots. feeling stupid for such thoughts. I knew. I knew. I know now. Now I know. You will not understand. Life experience adds up. To something worthy of sharing. If not... shut your damn mouth . feel sick and stupid. discontinue thought now for those reasons. dying here. though based on food primarily.

---

1:00am

he stumbled back after a long hiatus. treading lightly in the lemon-lime light.

avoids concrete sentence structure. the story becomes hollow through distraction. the audience does not find themselves lost in a page-turning trance. paper cuts and sweating. swearing and fidgeting in endless ecstasy. they were lost in a way. a deserter knows what they are doing. the moment of doubt is the fatal moment where foundations crack. deep fissures begin to grow deep in your heart and your body goes slack due to malnourishment. so never doubt. aim high, set trajectory and catapult yourself above those cemetary walls. you are no longer a breathing corpse. heart pumping blood into thankful veins. it is an overlooked feature in this delicate machinery of the body. it is a history of mankind. the blueprints others left and the fantastic ways their lives were spent. ask for the accounts of their life. write their story. talk for them.

though somehow, neck craned to the sky, stars visible after nights of obscurity, analyzing shifted galaxies, the striding soldier still points toward Jupiter, star-bright with awe and wonder, it is a huge and beautiful world, I never understood how the sheltering changed me, the isolation in moments, largely accounted for by the position of the zodiac in the sky... wheels churning... though somehow I felt the fear breathe cold at my craned neck. it rushed nearly sounding like a set of footsteps echoing loud and fast approaching then suddenly ceasing at the point of lunacy. there is a set of eyes on me. a human creature capable of successful nights over the bridge. lose me. lose interest in me.

paranoid of growing pressure welling up inside and spilling out through nervous twitches. some are subtle, others not so. constant itches to scratch. dodging eye contact and crucial points in modern human communication. at the very basic level missing the non verbal cues always, in awkward and choppy phrases, telling future tales of glowing shrines, there are no morals and the sense, once lost, never returns. We become doomed for a lost cause.

the rhythm and meter are there surely. cadence is strong and momentum continuing though the sense of it is lost in playful deviations of original phrase. mind on fire. I begin with a singular idea and then multiply with thoughts as rapidly as they come. they could all be typed in an instant if I cam to practice perfect typing technique. and it saddens me to know that children will at one point in the future experience life without ever writing on a piece of paper. it will all be electronic and the crazy transition should be sci-fi generic, though without any sense of horror. the fear comes from the unknown... go off on tangents or cotangents. catatonic in the sinful morning hours of a sunday. take on a herculean effort to increase dexterity and strength in order to kill that demon. ever-approaching, hunched and snarling, baring its fangs with poisonous wishes, a very real and animal hunger in its black eyes... I will have to be over prepared to survive. 

nov 30

whiskey at the whisky, relinquishing control, giving over the torch to a new harmonic melody, interested in the way the mind works after such large quantities of tranquillizer and the results are not looking too good so far for you. Floor beneath my feet slips away because I did not pay the bill. But why embarrass me in front of everybody? There is no rush to escort me off the premises. I am aware of consequence and I was offered marijuana under the stairway leading to the stage. I am no different, in a sense, to the pcp maniac who talked enthusiastically to himself despite if anyone truly paid any attention. We heard his voice from down the echoing street. Hair is wet in the rain. Sarcasm is infrequently registered on first acquaintance. You can never be understood, though you are surely a poet. The way you mold your words around phrases, all matching in theme and meter with other nonsensical phrases, though writing it all down might seem something coherent and wondrous for the expression of the abstract. A new expression of an old intoxication. Something sudden present despite a long and barbaric past prior to attention. This attention is all any of it matters in the reams of history. This man has no one else writing of him. No clear evidence will ever come across my desk. Rambling about hot sake and then marijuana and then the freedom of speech in the name of the almighty, oh lord jesus, but he did not follow us to his car despite saying the word 'premeditated' multiple times in our company without any subject or noun to lead or follow. His problem as a prose/poet begins with the fact that he himself lives outside of context. He lives beyond structured lines that help writers so well to achieve dreams in definite spaces. Walking across vast plains. Lighting cigarettes with a small bundle of sticks and rocks, like cavemen. Saying weird things but I find them interesting, says someone also in the shadows.

The nebulous jazz fusion but with perfect control. They collaboratively trained for sleep deprivation in the face of an undisclosed reality. (foot goes numb from tapping on the ground. a poem about the mental and emotional investment in the right kind of listening.) no cover but you will have to buy a drink and that turned into four and then it was discontinued. The beer glass by the trumpet-player's foot determined the length of the second set. Organically it somehow became empty and they killed their instruments in unison. There is a telepathy going on between them and a naturally rising and falligag cadence, with rhythms in between the brain waves, dotted eighth notes and new songs learned too quickly and with a bored patience. Huge meticulous crescendos. Musical ideas contrived and thought up quickly together at a too-rapid pace. Call out others for smoking inside and make dry humor jokes about sleeplessness or song titles. That's the humor. Song-titles. Otherwise they are majorly confused and anti-personal. Musicians who do not give lessons. Musicians who play better than anyone but have no recollection of such performances. It cannot even be conceived in them. Jazz lessons. Feed that animal burning to rupture skin inside of you. It is a black out and a lapse of consciousness. Falling into a state, cohesively, of lucidity though fogged out by genuine experience. This is the vacancy buddhists search for. Follow the train of thought. The same absence felt by a jazz musician the height of musical improvisation is similar to the 'flow' the essence of life made forcibly automatic in beautiful esoteric moments.

There will forever be the small blonde under the stairwell. Complain about the rain. "I was born inside of a rain drop and now I'm falling." Who knows, who cares. There is a stifled greeting in the air found of breaths taken... (suddenly a flash... of absurdity... strangers entering my life simply to be written about... they are avid readers of my bullshit and enjoy the honest yet abstracted approach I have on things... on occurrences in my daily life... all of those filthy missed connections... they read and love all of my bullshit... they come from the city into my life in droves... drones... and wish to be written about individually instead of as one dark mass... though it would at first start as individual meetings... names rarely mentioned. but why? there is no why. it should register in a similar sense. Always there will be the too-drunk girl falling over and pressing her tits against things 'on accident'. She has dark hair. I can't remember her name and she never tried to remember mine. Always the dressed-to-impressed rock scene and the semi-conscious girls who join in this late. That blonde will always be there. She will always have short hair. It will never grow. Smoking weed against best wishes talking about the prime time out of a given day for big hits and that rhythm simply sounded false. I tuned out, naturally. She looked at me once or twice. Probably because I talked in metaphors or strange plays on words which most people never notice or hear. They simply tune out. Like I do in conversations about tv shows. She speaks in rhetoric and no one ever understands any of the fuel in her.

City of devils.

Nov 28

Smoke rises, and then it's morning.
Nobody killed, they told me.
I was about to clear out.
When you have no imagination,
dying is small beer.
I couldn't count on anyone but myself to break this sickening spell.
Once liquored up.
In short, my morale was low.
It was a merry sight.
OH, how you long to get away!

You confuse everything
My friend gave me a kind, indulgent smile.
Drinking the last drop of my water supply
Falling silent as stars
night had fallen

---

hours pass

7 to be exact

 ---

open the idea
the wound and the wine
sutures there for comfort
for solace, insistent
mind expanding drugs
open the idea
a limited world
with boundaries set
on imagination
with rigid walls
close the thought
perish in that trance
seek out best life
for self then family
fight demons
in bank accounts
open the idea
insistent
persistent
nagging
daydream about murder
without intent
no motive outside
perish the thought
close out that trance
mind expanding demons
fight self then family
drugs there for comfort
on imagination
wine in bank accounts
overflow
suture the idea

---

nebulous jam
sporadic direction
yelling melodies
harmonize drum parts
percussive voice
grates the ears
but suspended in space
gravitate toward
harmony
direct melodies
to please the ears
turn the sound
around
swivel back
between concepts
great voice
gravity jam
suspend disbelief
in opposition
to sporadic direction
please turn around
swivel toward
conceptualized voice

---

nov 27

Feeling hugely responsible. No, I wouldn't say that I am afraid of commitment. If afraid of anything close, I'd say it to be of a lack of commitment. Go all the way. I apologize that I can't tear through space and time to see where I might end up a year from now. There is no way to tell. My body is immersed in a sweeping current, a river delta that misleads us into believing there is a larger pool somewhere at the end... that there is an end. The big drink. (Associative memories.) There are beautiful melting colors on the sides of the path. I let go of the wheel and stare out of the windows. There are no windows. I'm in the air, flying. This beauty is surrounding me like a blanket. To predict an end when so involved in the present is a preposterous affront. We have no ideas whatsoever. There might be death. There might be travel, women and publication. There might be armies of producers and managers, all sweating in a hungry mob, gathering quietly. There will surely be experience. All of life is experience anyway. Can never complain of current situation. Not with what it is. Could I? That would seem inhuman. To predict any coherent future is to believe that we are grounded. Ain't no telling what comes down the pipe next. Dreams? Pipe dreams? Too damn restless for normalcy. Urgent and thoughtful. I can't say what will happen in this year to determine our place in the world. How could you say with any confidence that in five years we will care to know each other? We all have chapters and forgotten pasts. There are bigger hearts hurting in more specific places the world over. You might find a reason to hate me, or fall in love, or vice versa. "I could not foresee this thing happening to you." There will dark and lonely nights spent wasted. There will be moments of pure ecstasy and revelation. There will be decisions made for better or worse. There will be simultaneous connection and isolation. A connection to the vital pulse of the earth. Isolation in the forest. Time spent working toward a solution is better than thinking about the problem. By leaps and bounds. There will be exploding heads and a rhythm to the words linking together like chains. There will be bare shoulders and six packs consumed in the evening to destroy the attempted six pack abs during the day. There will full heads of hair resting on rising and falling abdomens. There will mostly be projections of love. What would it be like to...? There will be introspection and a consistent questioning of every fact surrounding our well-being, our every move. Every step is backwards and full of conscious anger. Have a reason to seek me out in a vast unknown future aside from monetary reasons. Made end up spending the rest of my life in this side-room garage. There will be pain and denial of pain. There will be abundant happiness, over-flowing crazily out of every pore. No way to deny that fact.

--- hours later ---

the ebb and flow of spiders in the studio, spinning intricate webs, telling stories of bragging rights and melted down precious metals, of falling leaves and money burning in piles. Keep the books, burn the cash. but society always pushes away from the most positive solutions. each outcome compounding and after a day-long, mind-mold, of exercise mentally and physically, testing impossible boundaries and counting alignment, heading out to parties and to events of wild insanities. Follow the bread crumbs. Find coffee shops and write new songs. New material to share. Scratch a song for a brand new one. Something simple but catchy. College campuses. Northridge. Peet's Coffee. Outside coffee bean. Cd Trader. Libraries and obituaries. Nights out and nights in. Art galleries and practice hours spent inside. Days spent tracing the outline of things with minds eye. Analyzing words and artwork. Buddhism and writing literature. "we'll have to arrive drunk to have any fun." find friends. find family. places of refuge away from the wildness of recording. it will become necessary. finding places to escape to aside from behind garage and the book store. extinction.

Nov 26

Leftover pad thai sizzling and popping in the microwave. *interrupts daydream with electronic beeping* The passage of time in slow ticks on the timer. Everything electronic; for which we are entirely dependent. Rainbow christmas lights hang lazily from the random hooks installed some time before now, prior to moving date and with forgotten purpose. One plug shared with the dusty A/C unit. The other strand shared with television that is actually hooked up rather than an ignored decoration in the darkest corner of a room. Images of foreign places flash over the screen, revealing an ancient world diminishing, the lost corners of remaining wildlife in full technicolor, scenic portrayal. Small creatures running through life with tried and true instincts. They behave with motive to survive in an unforgiving world. Kill or be killed in the animal kingdom. No sound comes through the speakers below the screen. This must be heaven or paradise. A night of left-overs. A single remaining hefeweisen in a can. Based on the pace of familial conversation and inebriation, this is inexplicably. So a disguised blessing. Pop it open. Thank you, fortune.

Music plays. The soundtrack of a promising future. Well supported and incredibly grateful.

"Flooded, burnt, baked, and frozen. Grass can withstand it all."

nov 25

natural lapse. loud and urgent hours spent wailing. telling stories. sharing philosophies... Do you mind if I ask you a philosophical question?

---
 Psychotic mindset strewn across the floor. let me now when the world wakes up and I'll wake up yawning, lips to coffee mug as quickly as possible, teeth become yellow and I'll be damned. you blur out the labels of alcohol bottles in your pictures. you move quickly and think in dollars and cents. you wear blue dresses in my dreams. there are no stains on it. you are not crying. there are pirouetting snowflakes like dancers falling from cumulus clouds. level out at a low altitude where I saw you wading through dirty snow banks on the sides of the road, trying to make out road signs in the fury of the storm. you had purple intentions and marvelous manuscripts of plans. you are all of the faces I can conjure this revelatory night. you are up late taking hits in my bathroom as I sleep with heavy breathing. your pupils dilate and your hands cease shaking. you illuminate with vigorous emotion. a box full of luminous markers in the dark center of the universe. there are birds flying upside down and cartwheeling over cemetery walls. you tell me what song you wish to hear at your funeral and I wonder which one of us will outlive the other.

sleepless for fear of nightmares.
wake up screaming
but alone
wonder if ever made a sound

fragile broken glass
cardboard cut-outs
of pin-up girls
dressed immodest outfits
dressed in modest outfits
years past
bronze cast
river of silver
lead to city of gold
the end of the line.
the goal.

take a compliment like a shot

miss the insanity of a wild night

though something less memorable

black out and dangerously move forward

straighten out for the rich girls

in a fantasy world

make them all believe in symmetry

in a world where we meet exciting individuals

that blow us away but we never see again

one million first and last chances

happening at the same time

first impression lasts often when it is also the only

no redemption song

we are drunk and babbling fools

speaking in tongues forsooth!




fill your bed with kerosene. lit candles and rest. paint the stream-lined walls a color of confidence. curse the heavens. for the glory and pleasure of a night with you. bring out the cork screw. a romantic walk through the neighborhood, hand in hand. and the image disappears into despair. learn to walk out that fear and end up wandering farther and later into the night, down dark alleys, unconsciously asking for sudden and inexplicable confrontation. expecting the unexpected and falling victim to the certainty. 

nov 21

i remember wearing the defeat on my face and the senselessness of my actions were evident. outside it was snowing lightly. just enough for there to be an increased number of accidents from the more tentative drivers who don't seem to have the capacity to control their vehicle effectively. this is the story about a stranger who talked and listened to me at a coffee shop that now doesn't exist... there is empty space where we sat and chatted. i had watery eyes and felt cheated. she listened, heartbroken at my weakness, perhaps. a low moment but one that just flashed back to me. the story when a high school girl friend went out and cheated on me. not literally, I was not there at the time. and this older girl prior to disappearing to alaska listened intently, for some reason. the story can be written later. i just remembered it but it is not one bursting to be told at the moment...

----

One 99 cent tall boy of black and white tea with ginseng and honey. Go home to add more honey or sugar as desired. In tattered up jeans rolled up a bit, to avoid completely walking on the already destroyed cuffs, and flip flops. Walk into 7-eleven with a nod to the employee mopping up a beer spill in the back. Contemplate the idea of grabbing unnecessary snacks but quickly disregard it. No time. Must acquire a lighter. Must acquire fire. He rings up the beverage without acknowledgement. I ask his opinion for the best color bic. He says 'It does not matter. All colors are the same to me.' I paid and turned asking the air, 'How could a person value so little?' I exited the store with existential thoughts. The differences in perception are diverse among the human races. All races, though cognitive capabilities are much easier to interpret in any clear detail by means of common language. We yet to have orangutan interpreters. Earlier in the day, I heard the true account of synesthesia in the process with the onset of beautiful colors and hues with different songs. The abstract quality of something that can only be described as an aura. A poetic cognitive process. One for prose made of vocalized observation. Songs with different hues, encompassing an entire spectrum of light. Every color of a full day. All the brilliant bright hues at sunrise through the day, optimistic and bright, though falling to frigid temperatures of a melancholy evening with bottles of wine and spirits awakened past midnight. Concurrent sound waves, bending and curving through each cochlea with no harsh tonality. Clear as day the color blue. The importance of color and thoughtful diversity in the way of experiencing life. Constantly shifting and forming. An amorphous and hungry deity fueling on shattered expectations. Every event becomes a greater in-the-present feeling. Happy to be alive, even in a shit job like the register at a barren convenience store. I nearly apologized because I can't know what happens in his head. Probably a fueling world hatred and that is angry to be wasting life behind that counter. Though he could turn his attitude around and have a plot to move on from the shop after a certain amount of money is saved. Move his family back from unsafe territory. But lately I've been feeling an unknown hostility. This fear is of an unknown enemy. An hourglass?

nov 20

sudden vicious craving for a synapse-burning cigarette, or rather a small cigar to help my conscience, because it would taste and smell better. "when I get so lonesome I can't speak." but I won't do it. I know I won't give in because my heart would stop at first puff or fire. a lighter or matches to keep it more 'organic' I've heard. if you call the shots I'll call bullshit.

In the shade of the law. Small trees, red on the top, a black-speckled gradient to yellow at the bottom and then the trunk. There is a radius of fallen leaves at the base that the wind whips around. I'm placed in a tunnel of sorts, my back to the wind. A lot of empty chairs for decision making. Knowledge to my right. harrowing details of exotic adventures from places we've never been and perhaps never will go. there is simply not enough time to travel everywhere in existence. Don't you know how many perspectives there are in a jail cell? Plenty.

Sounded bummed on the phone and outside of reality. There have been no spoken words for quite awhile and everything turns to dust. helpless waste of a day. maybe not, truly. why would it make a difference for me to go to an art museum as opposed to cleaning my room and watching a mars volta concert? I killed spiders to avoid a freak out from my sister who will be arriving on thanksgiving with my parents. the bathroom still smells damp like a cave. unavoidable. I can't find the source. insomnia sparked up this solution to good health. it is simple to psych yourself out and have a blessed day of rest and bible-engulfing. eat every page and maintain perfect clarity. try it. gathered up all of the empty bottles that emptied me. recycle them and never feel so inadequate and useless than not knowing which bin to put them in. I thought I did it right but I came back it was all reorganized. I'm thinking my land lord is a perfectionist or has a case of obsessive compulsive disorder. (watering the walkway?). though I heard blood curdling screaming last night. at what point would I intervene? the point it no longer sounds like a family dispute and begins to sound like battery or murder. good place to enter the conversation.

ignore grammatical rules. I know them, surely. but this is about content rather than perfect execution. this is a jam session much like the 'incorrect' notes during a long psychedelic night with guitar in hand at the foot of the bed. 'your feet are on my bed' masked off. they charted off part of the road for re-paving or movie shooting, photo shoots and flashing lights of lenses, and I had to detour around the neighborhood. in my vehicle feeling sheepish. foolish.

in one single day how often do you feel foolish?

why bother with that sensation? this is it, folks. no need to feel unprepared. we are all under-prepared. there are huge gaping mistakes in our every action and history will not mind. in a small sense at least.

nov 19

operate under the assumption that late night creativity is somehow holier and more important to lay down in metaphorical ink than other disparate impulses throughout the day. the engulfing night and all of the ideas about existence. cataclysmic realization that I am alive! I am here in this bed alone with gentle folk music and there is so much to savor. the yellow leaves in the trees, a road I've never been down. children playing basketball and listening to techno music. I tend to see the negatives. rather than that even I tend to pick out details in a scene that can drench any optimism in the blues. i will look at the pile of leaves beneath an autumn tree and think about the potential death of a friend. any friend. a dog. how could you say no to unconditional love? man's best friend kept secret in hiding places of memory. modern man has no best friend.

alive, blissful, vivid, exacting, glory, handsome, wise, astute, resolute, yearning, conspiracies, longevity, brevity, acknowledgement, forgetfulness, tactile

laying on back in coffin position. ponder death briefly then remember how freaking alive I am. right now! someone will read this one day. someone will take notice or care to. death does not exist if we record. I live forever in this adolescent cyber space.

-------

The night sky always seems clearer when we can see our breath. The obscurity of rain and clouds. Everything seems brighter and more fragrant after the rain. A huge windshield the shape of our atmosphere. or the vague section that makes up my own horizon lines. not quite the entirely of our planet. there is no storm system big enough to cover unless meteor hit, gulf of mexico. the earth takes a shower and everything shines. rather than hurrying back inside I look at sparkling stars and realize that the huge majority of people would rush inside to warmth and electronics and comfort as quickly as possible. There is surely a bite in the air but it makes me feel alive. The skin prickles and bumps up, a strange reaction I can't remember the significance of. (the warmth of a whisper).

television and marijuana have claimed many of our souls. the final frontier aside from the depth of the ocean is no longer captivating as it once was. (unless of course on television). the mysteries of the universe fall to deaf ears and the new generation could not give a shit. somehow I am a part of this debauchery. I get lumped in. but I am a minimal part. I am speck and a drop in the ocean. which celebrity did what to who is cared for much more pertinently though they have media professionals warping the information to make them look the best. the star on the boulevard. the nameless and the futile existence. fuck you star map. that is not the right kind of looking up. with your careless euphemisms. all the distorted truth until there no longer is truth and we are puppets on strings pulled away. buy and sell souls directly from the source. talk to god with your fingers crossed. 

nov 18

woken up by some entity, a fear of death or wasted life, a smell creeping in through the ceiling and a constant dripping sound like chinese water torture, something this house was never fundamentally planned for. itching all over the body and always scratching, never allowing anything to carry on absent or forgotten. tears wash over me and smell like lawn chairs left out through a rainy season, mildew and decay, gathering swarms of fungus, let's eat them and fuel spirit quests deep into the causal night.

stars separate and divide. we achieve high levels of clarity and reach back behind our ears for more but there is none of that essential juice left. we've run dry.

smells like a drowned body coming up through the pipes. the pipes make noises as if coughing up a corpse. awake and aware in this cold state. a drip here and constant running water, never anything much like the ocean, more like a highway. fall in love with new faces. always searching for the impossible girl and the greatest smile of them all.

what the hell woke me up though? the repetitive sounds? the smell? or the train of thought. the brief nightmare that I cannot remember immediately. it could have been of werewolves tearing my passions into pieces in front of me. or an airplane disaster during a trip to the Andes. a kaleidoscopic tidal wave edging against our very existence. something that is a hundred feet tall and a hundred feet deep. no physical possibility. it crashes up upon itself and smothers into oblivion... something awful that lead me to gasp in fright of love death. something evil and dark. a black concern imprinted on the pits of my memory. what horrors stitched their way into my psyche while I slept? waking state. am I afraid of the etchings? the black and white contour drawings that foresee horrible things in the future of myself and my friends. images false manipulations of reality. something in me changed though as they compound then fragment... a structural difference never to be determined but always to be blamed for future utterances in the night. a new part of me. a new tattoo.

eastern philosophies, dripping ceilings, this is the kind of disrepair I belong inside of. I belong inside the cold rudimentary existence in order to sustain a genuine appreciation for all objects and privileges I am blessed with in my daily life. I belong in the darkest shadows of doubt and drunken debauchery all harrowing in detail and disgorging from my body intestines reversing. From here I can gain true perspective into the importance of life and the meaning of it all. It is not about fame or money. These are clever illusions put on by those who wish to keep things as they are, to keep the rich rich and the poor poor and to kill all possibility for a middle class... the number of those on the top of the economic food chain shrinks but the allure of it increases causing masses of riots and chaos... murders to upset the balance. take back what is ours. where is the spirit of revolution? or are we too deep in debt with conformity?

"what the hell did you do before you came here? I bet you didn't actually exist."

This is not the epicenter of the world. Those who have benefited, by stomping on the skulls of the injured and helpless, claim that it is. They are victorious but in a fucked up sense. Ocean side views. Cocaine and hookers. These ideals of the new american dream. Killing us all systematically. First comes immunity then comes marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. then comes divorce then comes adoption then comes a cycle of death and destruction. the foster care and the drunken dads.

these ideals should be destroyed!

how?

---
1am

this night is torture. violent feelings. feelings that it is all a huge sham. a masquerade of some sort and that any talent is quickly undercut by the amount of money involved. fuck

-----

2pm

warm up the mind like any muscle prior to physical work out, to make it all flow easier and more coherently. no concerns for damage. nature vs city. climbing trees and spending time meditating and getting high in the forestry, dark clouds with light blue back drop and everyone falls head first into their technological devices, me included, the beautiful music and the conspiracy against mainstream pop hits, the kind of stuff that is recycled constantly, there will always be those who wish to destroy it all by coasting on the success and spending the time and money for something that never deserves it.

warm up my mind with some fine rhymes, spin yourself a story in all its glory, never let a detail drop, opened pandora's box, and now you can't stop, there is too much to say, not enough time in the day, and speaking for everyone in the world, every boy and girl, fingers curled, is a huge responsibility in the face of reckless ability, coffee stains teeth and wet are my feet, consider the source, of course of course, voice is hoarse and we fear a sickness, ten quick hits, ten rolled spliffs, narcotic tobacco haze and realize the dazed confused feeling, weightless and reeling, the mind recoils in horror, and what's there to show for? a chauffeur?

feeling like a green aura in aurora, a cloud over the city, feeling shitty, forget that guns exist, move to Texas, remember again, choppy phrases, narcotic hazes, paranoid about the spelling of tough words, envious for the flight of blue birds, all so high and singing, all so fly and floating, could never understand how easy it is for them to take it for granted, their natural abilities that we could never experience, how could we live without them? take to the air? is it fair? Claire? wait for me there.

dirty fingernails, poetic fails, keep your conscience clean, know what I mean truthfully, suppressed sexual desire is evident in peeled plastic labels, followers following fables, broadcasted live on cable, or pay per view, kick off your shoes, feeling so blue, red eyes for long drives through stop lights and can't be stopped by the law, for some parents it takes a law to accept the son, it takes group acknowledgement before they can make their own decision, and we won and they cried though they did because they had seen it before on television, haunted visions and conspiracy against them, the feeling of drifting from point a to point b until no one can see, just a blur and without words...

think for yourself, you need help, call off those old tired ethics, live here and now in the present, the words over analyzed until a life is designed, blueprints for existence, they all feel it, it is in them and they are lunatics, kidnap values and retrace them to fit their mold, making bold moves, maneuvers cold but not so due to the cause, the city buried beneath blood, no way to prevent that sort of flood, there is no cure for this drug, rolled up in a rug and buried deep beneath the sea, in serene dribbling, a hard sell and oh well, I'll meet you in hell. I'll find a reason to believe you know what you are talking about.

Nov 17

A feeling that each passing moment is like a thin needle puncturing my head. Something damaging but not immediately. Talk zen and have a highlight. Head ache and a sudden feeling of 'want-to-do-nothing' but at the expense of feeling awful because of it. Why be alone for this?

so desperate for enlightenment. seeking through paranoid visions of the greatest sickness. exhausted eyes and song sections in shambles. cultivating a talent or wasting the time given. clean up my keyboard with a Q-tip. read. 

nov 16

hear a jovial family through thin walls and freeze in place. given options and closing them off. perpetual feeling of forgetting, jesus tap-dancing christ and the words feel forced again. make up and drinks from the owner and we were glorified in the superficial glow of lights and pictures, the young and ambitious band of brothers crossing over thin red lines and gorgeous innocent, wondering the purpose of personalized weed collections, safeway sushi, bailey's and coffee, funyuns and lethargic body, missing opportunities left and right. handing over business cards and we recreate all highs and lows. only high in red-bull fueled frenzy, harmonies electric and vibrant, hearing the cheers from sensible upper tier citizens, something incorrect about all of that aside from the sheer volume of our performance... blonde women screaming in ecstasy. suits and ties, ladders up toward the clouds. nothing but thinner air. fair skinned and polka dotted. playing the music festivals that we could only dream of. the couple day wait before taking advantage of a given opportunity.

cut off at the knees. no more begging, please. indie orchestral folk and the myriad influences presented in affectionate technicolor. wash hands, all the shaken scum. all of the lonely dragging nights due to extremes reached in nights prior. i am a mess of a human being today. tired. hollow eyed and paralyzed. i can't ever be hard enough on myself. i could have been out at a show gathering more experience. writing about the award show in full detail. writing new melodies and lyrics.

but instead. killing time and weirdly in aware isolation. not even feeling inspired to write or do much of anything. can't read or draw or paint or play or practice or sing or run or learn. can sit and hurt inside. only. try not to get too far down into the deep insolence... hating the words... hating this dead motivation... hating myself in turn because of it... never watches news. never feels more than a moment at a time... missed chances. missing chances. missing life. missing lives. lethargic. apathetic. pathetic. can't even move. deep into a hateful chasm of knuckle tattoos and anti-gay campaigners. Justify nothing. drunk off of life. all the ideas but never executing. make me worry. make it count. make it stop and start and kill off momentum...

need to be the best. must start tomorrow.

nov 14

a conversation with myself...

-So what's your story?

-Well I dropped out of college to be a part of this. Technically I'm 'the new guy' though we are a relatively new formation.

-Dropped out huh?

-I was studying creative writing at Arizona State with a 4.0 but I found Arizona was not my state. I was unhappy with my college experience out there. So my old pal here, Mike Campbell, called me up with an opportunity to come out and join Sound Cannon. I jumped at the chance.

-How long have you been a band?

-Well I moved here officially early in the summer. We wrote and recorded our Zelodius EP at that time which is now available everywhere online.

-Zelodius... interesting... what does it mean?

-It's an abstraction of the word melodious, which is to say something is pleasant sounding. Not that the EP is an abstraction of what is conventionally pleasant-sounding... because it sounds great... but rather the motivation behind the writing process is something unique. We write what comes out of us naturally without conforming to any specific genre or ideal aside from one of open-mindedness. Our stance on writing music seems infrequently used due to market over-saturation of cookie cutter pop music dictating the 'correct' way to go about it. Hence the 'Z' because it is the most infrequently used letter of the English alphabet. Long story short, zelodius represents our compatibility as musicians and our collective lofty goals of ultimate creative freedom it all respects.

-Wow. Great stuff. That's all true?

-No. It's probably what we will say from now on though. Zelodius was the name of teacher Mike and I both had back in middle school who was known for her crazy antics and long witch-like fingernails which she would rasp on the desk making all of the children shrink.

-haha. so how does it feel to be nominated for the 'best rock song' at the 2012 hollywood music in media awards?

- pretty damn exciting. we put in the hard work and we are happy enough to be here at all. and we are playing tonight right before the after party!

-for those who have never heard your music... how would you explain your sound?

-we are a strong mixture of a multitude of stylistic influences... from rush to saosin to bloc party... we have been described as 'progressive pop/rock with sometimes a heavier, metallic edge'.... for fans of Circa Survive, Protest The Hero, Incubus and maybe MuteMath if not simply for their ability to write whatever kind of song they want without sticking themselves into a constant genre. we constantly reform and reshape our sound. The current full length that we are working on will surely illustrate all of influences and how we transcend an easily labelled genre. In a record store, we would be found in the rock/rnb section though we all know the diversity found on the shelves of Amoeba.

-New album???

-Oh yes! We are teaming up with James Paul Wisner who has worked with Paramore, Dashboard Confessional and New Found Glory. He is producing our 12 song full length that we will track next month.

-any shows coming up?

-We are playing at the whiskey on the 23rd of this month. excited for that particularly due to the fact my family is flying down. then we have a few shows lined up during our recording schedule in december. check us out on soundcannon.com and add us on facebook for more information and behind the scenes footage from all of these events.

-thanks

-no, thank you.

Nov 13th

Careful with the accurate language, the negative accents and overtones weigh over the top.... but I'm not paid for my opinion, tell me to shut the hell up when I need to. horrible things to say on an early night. Feeling alone again as an outlier, all the while I could have been having crazy sex with a beautiful young woman who works at a store I've never been to. She is there, somewhere. But there is fear. Fear of the unknown? Is that it?

Watch my words so closely that I can never enter a full subconscious flow of them... over analyze and everyone feels so damn sober. weigh you down.

tone of voice and matter of opinion. the outsider. the considerable losses and the over the top politically charged humor. easy way to divide the nation therefore the way we will always do it because united we fall. everyone so strung out on their beliefs. needing a fix of reality. needing some heroin in their veins for the love of christ. bring us some fucking salvation. save yourself first though, there are 7 billion who hate this just as much. the isolation and the lack of acceptance. (did I spell it fucking right this time?) minimize swearing due to lack of color it supplies in words though my current anger can only be defined in such words. A shit storm of thoughts and a violent melody embedded forever.

maybe my anger is a veiled awareness that I am of a quickly dying breed.

I read. I don't read what I 'should' read.

----

spider crawled on me through sheets, pay an homage to the old lyrics and the derivative meanings behind the words. I heard you fell into a rabbit hole. something drug addled and incandescent. I'll see the lights tomorrow. something actually happening. for a few years. worried about longevity when I lose my mind and can hardly control any impulse to better self in any other sense and mr positive over here. overly optimistic is a lie. that is dumb. pick yourself up off your feet or die. never get on your fucking knees. everyone is worse than you. you are alone and so is everyone else. this is a dark tuesday.

chug a beer naked. the vanity mirrors all around. it scared me. i thought it might have been somebody. tell them one thing hear back another and never be true. cognitively dissonant old me. I can't allow anything to happen without question. what the fuck is wrong with that? (it's his damned partial college education, they'll say.) fuck you, I'll say. and we will end in argument and assess the results of this quandary. intelligent and calculated but simply to shit in front of the judges with all your might. the courage to do that on national television. though I do not trust a reputation anymore than for it to be a guideline for the person. the manipulation. talk to them. ask my own damn questions and ruin everything. why did you have to go and be so curious for the existence of truth and beautiful music.

"what does she do?"

nov 12

muscle memory training for beautiful sounds created
we could write very nice duets together
how could it happen though?
how could it happen without professional quality?

I am lost in a sea of drawn out opportunity
of broken spells and binding spirit
of beer breath and wide breadth
couldn't catch a glimpse
of our fate undecided

dye your hair or die

feed us to ourselves

--

blue guiding light, burning up tea but turned off the stove top to crack open a lukewarm beer instead, something you could never understand and certainly never conducive to being creative, potentially the opposite but the melancholy vibes are accentuated. my heart pulls in different directions and I'm wishing for an honest conversation... she was shorter and skinnier, something out of a contemporary fashion magazine, against the grain of standard trend, though still maintaining a definitive trendiness, all of the glory taken away and the glare in her eyes was shared in mine, the same sun beating down and sapping us of our strength like blossoming flowers awaiting the spring rain for sustenance we will begin a new chapter sooner than ever and all advantages will be taken across the galactic fields, we were not meant to be together due to distance without easy access and the flight times change in intermediate sorrow, the vocals and the conspiring against, the late and unwarranted vocalization, and the noises made in bedrooms are indistinguishable from the mold as a whole, your pink hair and the idea of it destroy me physically, making my body weaker, calcium dust in the air, breathing in like an oxygen mask is throttling my face, insubordinate decision making skills, know how to bow down and take it when required, the truth is in the face of every liar, they wear it cowardly beneath layers of leather skin and black furry jackets, all spiraling down toward an appointed oblivion, the airways cost more than ten dollars, and our salvation can be found in the midst of an overcast day, filtering through like back lit snow flakes, each unique and crushing to the earth with a forceful velocity, what is the ocean but a series of drops? and the passion in each of our eyes, considering the sources of the most potent emotional weight.

how does it compare? an instant connection between kindred souls but with such a limited time frame. enough content to fill books of love poetry. a top 40 radio hit playlist, all sad songs to help those with current or recent break ups. the attitude of the artist with a megaphone, yelling things into a crowd... slam poetry in the bedroom. up against the back boards and without a comforter anywhere in sight, hoping that bottle speaks like you, like us, like me.... does it compare to the emotional weight of the death of an important friend? no. there will be no eulogy for this lost potential. it will forever remain as a blank possibility, a huge what-if, though still fully in the realm of possibility... if she wanted it or if he wanted it, all would work out much greater, all would be infinite. the what ifs could be answered! the scenarios fought over. shade the sun from her eyes, put your arms around and read sexually charged quotes from romance novels like the scene in any romantic comedy. if this were a romantic comedy then one or the other would prepare themselves for a surprise encounter while the other remains a mystery. in fact, he thinks, a knock on my door at this hour would be better than any wishing well wish ever made. it is cold yes my darling. we can stay warm with rocket fuel injected space heaters. we can stay comforted in each others arms. soft blankets smelling like cologne or perfume or pheromones and moaning consciousness in the late hours, simply sleeping on the first few nights, a shared space like the forbidden consensual love in the green fields of a Dystopian future. holding hands despite the enforced jail time for such an action. such an incendiary action. full of flame in the face of cold facts. the distance and never coming to conclusion. begin to reflect on the accidental nature of the meeting to begin with. all conspiracy for me aside. wishing to hold you in my arms but knowing damn well it cannot happen without some intentional plans... no surprise visit unless one of us has the wherewithal and television detective clues to reenact the situations.

fucking help us come together!

---

contemplate christmas. recording schedule. where to spend new years in the pacific northwest. how to live freely in a golden tower. 

Nov 11

Body withers without stories to tell, the mind decays into dust and cobwebs through neglect. Sew your mouth shut. Devour words and fill fabricated lands with them, all the hypothetical arrangement. The excitement hidden in my voice and killing vibe. Accidental. It is extreme and nice.

----

Does he have the heart and the motivation to kill a six pack of Oregon's finest brew? It would certainly be a feat of legendary performance. The body would reel and recoil after the calories and stupid alcohol breath. At least he can brush his teeth. Coyote yells in the parking lot, the high school punks meet here too the day before veteran's day. the extended weekend to feel stupid and ridiculed again in the morning.

"If you could only listen to one album forever, what would it be?"


four winds, the great gig in the sky, paint it black, on your way, two small deaths, bookworm, vital signs, joy, the kids aren't alright, rich kid blues, let's go get stoned, as long as it takes, stand by me this modern love in the most trustworthy tin cans. lime tree the lottery gravity. the basic four blood cops. blindfolds aside sweet disposition. far more gathering pebbles, kiel. big sea please come home some weekend night. I begged you everything, you're trailing yourself. Lovers in love stay awake! the prophet give life to the lifeless. bought the ticket took the ride on moths wings.

---

write so extreme but with no audience. no one reads constantly. the words, even the carefully selected ones, are overlooked and it is decided that I should write myself a book of avant-garde phrases and random English-language mischief. I bet I have enough content to go through and edit to create 10 books on the execution of free-writing/free-association type writing. but some of it is outside of those labels. most of it, really. 

---

whiskey a go go presale.... dec 3rd rec date...

nov 10

Asleep again in the icebox. Bottles rushed up against the ice. The ice was once separate analogous shapes all rattling around but in transition they partially phased-changed, melted a bit, and froze back together as a huge unmoving clump. The beer is buried beneath this ice. Freezing on a windy California night, trying to make myself sweat less in the vault. No money in here. No money shots. Warm coffee necessary thankfully though the teeth-stain jokes tear down defensive psyche. Could barely sleep without brushing teeth. Nothing offensive or outspoken. You are cogs in a greater machinery. You have relinquished control and every motor function now is governed by a omnipotent marionette. A puppet with invisible strings. We can jerry rig these haywires and try to untangle the mess we built up since birth.

Fans gathering dust in the darkened world. Snow fields and big bearded men striding stoic without proper shoes, smiling. This is not cold. Keep the body moving. The human potential is too great for this to be of any lasting effect on you and your body. You will be warm again, and quickly. Is it not nice to feel discomfort? It wakes you. Meet the well informed women who is like a splash of frigid water on your sleeping face. Instant from resting, slow breathing, to something quick, violent, terrifying briefly. End up wide awake. Why desire to feel anything less than everything possible? This is one huge life. (hypocrite avoids vegas trip and stays back and promises eternity though does nothing proactive to sustain).

High speed midnight burn through the desert with the stars all open and shining down the way for the roads without electronic lighting. Rattlesnakes sleeping and gambling addiction fueled by streams of constant money and greed. There will be naked women and insanity. There will be fun and foolishness. There will be existence though for the wrong motivation. It all seems fucked.

Nov 9

The definition of a prodigy, indecent exposure on a dark night masquerade, somehow channeling the attention span to keep television in the back ground behind writing, a necessary skill and all of the advertising tricks used by all of these companies, it has boiled down to such perverted and random moments. Everything taken out of context and these people are stupid and convincing, watching a movie and staying high maintenance, sitting next to you on the couch and feel the moment, the expectations and the revelations, getting into the rhythm, fall asleep at the studio, working and taking pills in collection, feeling every moment collapse and then the momentum subsides, dying and scaring the younger generation ,such random and hard to believe in sequences, music video shoot, haunting and excitement, that’s fucking crazy. Protective and wild simultaneous. They never know your full name. they let it slip beneath the cracks and no one sleeps right.

November 8th

"In youth we may have an absolutely new experience, subjective or objective, every hour of the day. Apprehension is vivid, retentiveness strong, and our recollections of that time, like those of a time spent in rapid and interesting travel, are of something intricate, multitudinous and long-drawn-out. But as each passing year converts some of this experience into automatic routine which we hardly note at all, the days and the weeks smooth themselves out in recollection to contentless units, and the years grow hollow and collapse." William James Principles of Psychology 

 -------

Hunched over the table, shifting eyes, gobbling food given to him and he takes advantage. Incredible picky eater, which is an impossible sensation for myself, grateful enough just to fucking eat. Ungrateful. Hates books. Repeats phrases incessantly in conversation. Denies knowledge for many things. Attempts to lie into a big ego. Stuffing face without talking about anything meaningful. There is no lightbulb in the back there. A blur of a life. Something passing by so rapidly, no one even takes notice of that ignorant presence. Honestly racist. Spoiled rotten. Epitome of something so vengeful and hateful. Fills my head with wasps buzzing and stabbing into the grey matter. Grey is not a god damn color it is a shade. Why is the pursuit and love of knowledge and beauty something to ridicule? What kind of backwards upbringing in the shadows of doubt is this? I will stick in traffic like a broken brake and I volunteer for circumstances I can hardly tolerate in my mind's eye. Frustration and ridicule. Glorious in that existing shit storm. Heavy lifting and breaking the back down until nothing positive remains. Painting and dividing all the elements we used and the warm colors always overpower despite shitty los angeles rain driving, depressing music and congestion on the 101, we will be stuck and I will bite my tongue because I am an outlier, I am the one to place the blame for something strange or negative to happen. Strange is fucking good. If you want to stick out at a 'formal' event then do not dress formal. A bunch of hollywood garbage. We voted for this. Enough stupid people following dumber people in circles killed all hope for turning around and exiting. The trash piles up. Ignorance and selfishness combined form in huge clouds over the city, attempt to go out for a run in the rain but the air hurts the lungs with all of the denser, polluted, molecules in it that the water dragged down from higher up. Our consumption of oil and gasoline will kill us all. Gas prices steady climbing and everyone talks about money like it is the only important thing in the world. Shallow cunts with depression caused by time away from cell phone. An angry aggressive rant. The fake tits and red lipstick everyone assumes that the quiet ones are the ones to watch. Dating porn stars in the valley of dying dreams. Our valley. Who could survive this climate? It fucking sucks here. Everyone is a liar for their own personal gain and a dissenting opinion is always closed off. Speak the voice of dissent and be shunned. Exiled. Excommunicated. Speak the voice of truth, of a lens of equality and reality. Exile. Excommunication. They will hang you by the balls in the public square but no one will fight on your side they will bite their tongues until blood pours out then go home early, sick, to fuck the babysitter before the wife gets back from book club. Book club though? Is a god damn joke and a hoax. They pretend that they are The View. Or some other useless bullshit carnal knowledge. Shit no one needs to know about. This is the content that does not enrich our lives but rather diminishes. Peasants. With peasant problems. The stupidity and the ignorance. Unbelievable this shit is the cultural mirror reflecting our ideals back to us. Orange fake tit blonde high heeled stardom. Shallow and idiotic all the vomiting supermodels and the pressure to conform into a puzzle piece for a grander, obsequious, universe. The idea of beauty has been exploited into something so narrow and unrealistic that we all hate ourselves and feel ugly outside. No one feels ugly inside. Especially those who are fucking filth inside. To the core. Bring it on apocalypse. bring it on cynicism. fuck your world. ill take mine.