Wake up with dry throat from the smog in the air, confused what state and why. Stories told of depth but not much is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. We all guess each others ulterior motives and move on to other ventures. All for one. Feeling draught through a sleight of hand. Suddenly I’m tacking cities on a map. I’m meeting and greeting the people I might be stuck with. Not a problem, mostly. Given a shot at the music. I feel good but it feels false. I feel like behind the scenes is a terrible monster that no one has warning me about. (Most complicated music ever written. House full of genius musicians in Seattle. Many living on the floor in corners.) Prove worth. Record album. Graffiti tag an overpass and write your name in black paint on the surface of white objects. Ties that hold ideas together with twine. We are the unacceptable exception from the rule. I will not be corrupted. Everything feels kind of dirty. Simple life, more Buddhist than I in practice. Sacrifice for the headache on the ceiling. But outside of the limits. All the stars in space misaligned and they have special sealed books. She had blue hair. She had blonde legs to match a short skirt, beers before sushi, stoned in a strange city, attempt to get a sort of mental layout. Originally it is vain. I’m here to discover. (mute the doubt mute the doubt). A guitar and a dreamcast. Overcast a look over your shoulder blade. Sharpen the aggression and tighten up on those notches. Relax and realize all that passing potential. (Everyone is connected. An outsider. Trying to hump the American dream. Rich. 5 dollar coffee. Work for it. Me as a waiter. Impossible to navigate.)
