Is the quintessential reason for living the simple fear of death? What a bore.

I need to get out of this effusively cynical mood. I'm probably just bored with life. I really need some excitement. That, or some motivational experience that will make me want to take initiative and do something with myself. I'm just too comfortable right now.

I feel good ( Read more... )

This journal is a tombstone for the past. Its contents are the epitaph. It is forgotten with the tumultuous droll of years, but this journal stands forever erect, a monolith of personal sentiment.

I believe it was Samuel Johnson who jokingly remarked on man's perpetual desire for Spring ( Read more... )

A group of kids was huddled underneath my building's alcove last night. They were sitting cross-legged around a guitarist. There was a hint of talent in the chords he played. He was strumming a folksy tune while he sung weak lyrics with a distressed voice. His voice sweetly brushed against the ears like a soft Autumn breeze. There was a mystical ( Read more... )

They were waiting on a small staircase in a grandiose hall of a mansion. The man approached the girl, who he was apparently familiar with, and spoke to her in a manic tongue. He says to her, "I love you, you know that. I've always loved you." She bashfully smiles and kisses him. He continues, "That is why, I want to, I've wanted to say that, I'm ( Read more... )

The Descent of a Rose ( Read more... )

I don't see people.
They're just ten-second sketches.
I'm sticking to books.

backwards compatible
it's totally radical
looking towards the future
without forgetting the past

I think, I can safely say, Charles Bukowski is my favorite writer. I've been enjoying Vonnegut, but nothing can possibly compare to the sensation that squirmed through my body when I first read Bukowski. I want money, free time, cold weather, cigarettes, hot apple cider and a sizable quantity of works written by Charles. This is my happiness.