Sunday 19may24

Here I am with another smoke again, the fifth of which I smoke on my lawn chair. A fitting whisky, aged dry, and some weird long and tired gaze toward the charming California sunset. 

I haven’t written in weeks. I haven’t called. I haven’t slept. 

I’ve been thinking about girls, booze, and my workload. I get loaded, howl at the moon and return to my cave. Every night. 

A lovely day was today. Woken by morning street cleaners and the echoing sound of traffic, my head pounds with concentrated sugar from the night before, laying here stripped of oxygen and mead in my bed. I don’t feel the bugs, the liquor bugs, like I feel before I sleep, yet tonight might be the same fate. Or it could be different. 

I think important work is sitting down at the type and letting a calculated stream of consciousness flow from your fingertips. But this is not that. This is rambling and terrible. 

You go, on your drive around your subtly crazy town, thinking about the ways you are to structure this next blurt of shit, returning home to spit it out. 

That's how it worked last month.

It's not working that way anymore. 

There are people in the world with strategy, yet I have none.

Sunday hits after a weeks-long endeavor to recall a method long gone, only to find that every little sentence I can physically write about the knuckleheads at Columbia, suck, and I'm just the idiot chasing the blank flag.

But I see the lights fade like they do in pictures taken deep into the night. Swirling round’ and round’ me, and these caked makeup glossy rich big bright and beautiful faces from last Friday, kiss me and drag me down into the hellion sea the ferryman braces the waves under. I see the outlines of dancers, of people, of buildings all casted by gray and weird visions out beyond the reach of god, nearing devils roaring midnight hour. I feel the crisp burn of ash and tobacco on my lungs and the flow of salted barley wine down the back of my throat, I feel it again, again and again. Clunking next to me and this vivid view of her black shoes and her white socks, hiked high up her legs and the smell of stale cigarettes, in orange, in green, in blue light, all casted around the impending infinite darkness of a downtown sky. All faded round’ me these lights are, and so I am the swirling man on such a wild string of weekends. I feel. I feel these nights be the ones that would have kept me fueled for today behind the paper. 

but nothing. And that's okay.