Sept 3

Psychotic breaks in the glowering sunlight. Mean everything to nothing. Voice cracks, dry like desert. Stomach burning with acidic intent. Writing only gibberish must be training my thoughts out of clarity. I must speak less clearly now that I write like this constantly. Revisit old music ideas and notebooks and things and wonder if anything is of any quality. Or just quantity. But truth is the root of quality is quantity. Listen to myself butcher old songs. Without that I couldn't be wherever I am now. True. It is important to grow into a voice, into a VOICE.