we are our own celebrity

we know the words and play out scripts to t's and x's. we say last names like middle ones, breaking into yet more levels of relation like we mean it. and we do.

i communicated with a fly 3 days ago. like a morning where the dog whines to be let out, a fly came buzzing at my head with such intensity that i knew something was up. it HAD to be saying something. i tried to hide under blankets and it just landed on my headspace repeatedly. then i tried to shoo, opened a window. it went out immediately. i felt like i'd raised the dead.

we keep it typecast, just to stay sure. but break out of the familiar and you find yourself not only lacking self and celebration, but also adding fear and strife and the godforbid of growth. type into templates and rank the formacies therein. who's best? who's better? odds are chasing you, i can hear them.

and at nightclub, at music scene, all faces remain intact and complaced. everyone is celebrity to some extent, in their own grandeur delusion, my own inclusive. but nothing matters; everyone and no one is special. that whole dichotomy really makes sense sometimes. others not, i guess. but, to quickly evaporate from that scene while inside of it::::::::::::::::::::

i just look at a picture of winslow in the summer sunset. i'm immediately there, i'm warm and fed and loved and have a perfect brain lift going. it never ends, that fleeting memory. the picture placed on the top of a desk sinks past the screen and into my heart for ALL it's worth. blind my eyes, starve my eyes. i'll be there soon enough, love.