Having the quiet melancholy end night that became necessary after long tumultuous day in absentia. There are holes in the parts between the color blindness and the void. New colors, uninvented and reborn to new eyes. Wearing the jewelry that determines initial status as a n individual. Get lost in pirate cave without a host, no captain of the ship, random odds and ends, shining sequin vests and old comic books, a memorabilia store of a different time, that strange hillside appeal of funky California, the ability to get lost in a bubble of hubris, that high in the mountains, called by down by the world to drink and to lay sinfully together in a beds of rose. Miss the art exhibits on the boardwalk but it is all okay in the end. We tried and failed and that is life but I wish to convey a different adaptive opinion. I want everything to seem picturesque and backwords, twisted around back woods and finding self alone again in blacklit sentiment purchase fresh candles and allow them to burn, the vegetable at the dinner table becomes a mute and is ridiculed for become so anti social after the consumption of a certain herb. But they control the outcome and the level of consciousness I am at is unimportant to the level of alcohol compassion near here in my blood supplies. In frozen mines. Buried beneath the surface of the desert. Bury parts of me in upside down cross shaped catacombs. Large enough in size to contain a city. Multiple mile radius. Underground like a tomb, casino structures, porn shops, seven elevens, liquor stores, barbed shops, the store locally that contains milk and black and milds, naked juice drinks, all of the combined elements. The diet of a king losing a crwon
---------
So many books to read, girls to kiss from past and future, the future ones hold the most prestige, the mystique of a thousand missed opportunities... we form our lips into shapes specific for the recipient. burn down the house and basically become my lover. basically become my heart. I will remember your tattoos fondly and in dark lighting because they have minimal color and probably hurt a little bit, the needle sticking out of a haystack that a doctor made me kick. I want to read everything weekly. Become the smartest most literate and accurate reader and writer that I can. I must also become a music theorist, writing great symphonic equations on chalk boards and liner notes, all of the musical scrawls scratched out by old scribes, the leading lines and treble clefs, we follow the bars across the city into other bars, sometimes repeating the same bar multiple times and getting heavy-drunk on the sound. I will calculate time signatures using physics and counting in between ambitious lines in the sand. There is no sand and if there was it could not be static, the wind, time, elements, change this sand and the times blast off and could be anything but we are so narrow minded to feel naturally clung to standard 4/4 and standard physics. The majority of people never understand the forces of nature in any great detail. We walk around numbly humming along to the sounds of cracking sidewalks and wind in our ears is nothing short of a miracle. Very few realize what it is to be a conductor of a symphony. One full of sibling rivalries and different hierarchical feuds, in mischief and in health, we will play whatever notes we damn well please. Fired from the orchestra. Hired a new bassoonist. Timpanis don't shine themselves, the awkward tapping and humming to tune something huge and demanding. Sweating in the back, trying to cooperate but also look cool by not cooperating. Mostly try stick spins and drum rolls of a kind or another.
----------
Finding cadence in dark places, always getting what you asked for in that attention-drained sea of obscurity. No one knows your name but you are torn between the worlds of acknowledgement and of disappearance. Finding a label and disguising egotistical distaste under battlefield worlds. We are legendary and we are considering the development of retarded beats and comparing dick sizes in truck stop bathrooms. I don't write to please you. There are no rules or boundaries so fuck off. I want you to read. I am a psychological anomaly. I don't understand where everything combines. Into magical dust between the keys. A key change that melts brains... We went to dinner, fireside, on Venice at night where all of the empty lots reflect my inadequacy to act sooner, loudly. Everything echoes off of the dark beach planes. We are alone and romantic but talking sad about past skeletons. All of that buried past and the virginity lost and the music played and the number of people we slept with in different mindsets. Talking out loud in that dark setting felt open and ridiculous and immortal. We ordered our food. She drank and I had a little with a rootbeer. A date night rootbeer and they flipped the chairs while we used the restroom before exiting. She enjoyed the emptiness of the street, the fact that everything had to be imagined to fill in the blanks. Everything is incredible and exciting in the daytime but it is all just shadows of freak shows and glorified peddlers, the artists on the boardwalk who show themselves entirely and without shame. But they are hygienic and sane. Therefore their art is important. We are controlling the outcome and subsidizing the compared wealth between the two of us. Who buys who what? We found out outside griffith park when we get lost at a shakespeare book signing high in the woods, alone and anxious with nothing left to prove.
