this beat is getting me electric. laid-back ecstatic. if you want a ride, don’t ride the white horse. my perfect traintrack. i checked every seat, no one left a half-devoured New York Times for me. my friend didn’t get on today, or he hasn’t left Boston yet. can’t postpone the lack of inspiration, have to look it smilingly in the face and.
with all my pride, i can’t write about the fat anger i smother, the sickness i swallowed. but, and yet, and still, i can’t escape hoping that if i just write it out, let it out, make it, shape it into a project, share everything from fierce surface to twisted intestines, i’ll get better. it’s so easy to hide, like drinking water. it only happens in my own thoughts, so why risk it? instead of ending up healed and glowing, i could end up pathetic. boo-hoo. i won’t tell. never, never tell. never is a long day. and this distinction of inside my head and outside, i know it’s only cellophane. it sounds like crackling fire when you crush it in your hands.