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to make up for lost time, I’m going to write until my fingers fall off, and the music can keep playing. I’d rather look at my writing in print than look in the mirror. what I write is a better representation. I’d rather design some sort of icon than provide a picture of my face there. how is it so personal that we want to see all these pictures? bands jumping around on stage, and we think we’re seeing these people truly? maybe we don’t need to. maybe the music is coming up from a deeper place, without a face. I’m tired of being around people. I’d rather be with friends. none around here, practically. DC was lacking, too. I want to be honest, I want to be miserable. who’s up for it? don’t bang down the fucking door all at once now. let me get out the appointment book. where’d everybody go? did I just imagine this whole thing? empty smoke filled hall. smoke rolls under the doors. it feels incredible to be outside, a release, liberating. walking over the baseball field grass is when I feel more . . . at peace, at peace with life, at peace with the violent world. one day the big blue sky will turn its darkest and come down and crush my skull so that a swimming pool will come gushing out of it. the sky itself, which is time. no excuses. pure fire, air, wind, water, pure earth.