the happy highways where i went and cannot come again
“nobody remains
to jolt us awake
from this long, dark dream
of birth, death, and rebirth”
I can’t imagine how anyone could read whatever it is that appears here late at night and feel anything but disgust for the deeply cynical and self-loathing and self-obsessed thing that strings it all together
No more faces and no more voices
I can’t do it anymore . . . with all these faces and voices around me, most of them angry
Some for good reason and others not at all!
I feel insane inside my own body . . . and if it were possible for my skeleton to detach itself from all that flesh and all that wiring from the inside it would certainly crawl right out my mouth and run away
And hell, I wouldn’t blame it
The poor thing is twisted to hell and along for this awful ride whether it wants to be or not
The ride isn’t fun anymore . . . I want to crawl out and run away too
Really all I want are good friends
Hey if it’s OK to talk about myself once again on this dumb website that no one reads, I’d just like to say this: when I’m dead it would be nice if people said something like “yeah, he could be an asshole sometimes, but I don’t know, at least that dude was real”
My brain was completely drained of serotonin last night, and I was spooked on the spooky stuff and had a head full of melatonin. As I slept, this strange combination of substances produced a dream. In it, a lady I know in Nashville had sent me a letter . . . the letter said, more or less, that she liked me a good deal, and that she was sorry she hadn’t spoken to me in so long. God, maybe she even used the word “love”.
When I woke I was so happy! I remembered this letter. I searched my room for it. And I knew that as soon as I found it I would write her back saying I felt the same.
The letter didn’t exist; it wasn’t real. Upon realizing this I went into the kitchen and joylessly made six little tacos and a French press full of black coffee. And I sat down at my desk and ate those tacos and drank that coffee while Dopesmoker chugged on from plastic speakers. I stared at the tarot cards hung above my desk, The Hermit and Death, and felt absolutely nothing.
Seriously: this place wasn’t made for me and for the people I know, and all we can do is be nice to each other and have fun till the whole god damn thing collapses in on itself and we’re bones on the sidewalk
