a lot can change in 82 weeks.

something about the way it all feels brings be back to the first memory i can recall as a child. swinging on an old tire swing that was assembled by by brothers and i. swinging and feeling careless, dangerous and free. off the bench and into the clear blue sky I would go, over the green mossy grass, and beneath the tree house that hung its watchful ( Read more... )

rainy days.

And here it goes agian, the same wave of grey that has washed up my body and pulled it underground. The same familiar tune is ringing so clear. I hate making mistakes, but I like to believe its all bad luck. Because K/end/all on 9/11 has to mean something. I find myself in this cold basement playing on the piano, pushing random keys until my hands ( Read more... )

after all this useless fighting, after all our schemes ( Read more... )

It seems like the memory is infinite, and its tiring. I've been having these dreams lately, where this locking eye contact is made, the background fades, and I compare your face to the darkness. contrast. I've had one every night for a week. I wish it was possible to just dream white.

My hair is short. Really short.
I was told I looked like Rambo.
Rambo without about 5 inches.
I'm regretting this decision.

ugh.

Why do I feel that I need to run, not walk to the nearest exit?

We can see the stars
from where the birds make their homes
staring back at us.
Indifferent
but distanced perfectly
projected endlessly
it's so fucking beautiful

Under every dead, burnt down building, are buds waiting to emerge from the ash.