(pm)
the first involves the seasonal version of cultural lag. i always think that the winter will slow me down, i'll hibernate, i'll stop going and settle, and lose touch and be subtle while single, and just sleep. then winter comes and i fucking turn it up, to compensate for weather, to show my lack of confidence in dealing with cold and new clothes. like change is that rough, and i always forget about it. then spring comes and i want to go out, but i'm exhausted and lonely from all the follies, all the overcompensations that ice slip tried to play off as breakdance. and i'm stuck inside when the weather's nice and can't talk to anyone anymore. the well: the reasons.
the second is the budding of a new style of nothing. let me stop to quick the catch, i just stare out of a fucking bus window and play off the irrelevance of apathy. like, i'm really thinking about something, really trying, but i'm just echoing lyrics in my head that have lost meaning in the repeating. "at least i can breathe," i tell myself as a strange-eyed customer tells me that "any day above the dirt is a great day". i now know that anything worth fighting is a meaning for short and painful knees. we all bite our hands at the end of the day, and it's those that still have hands left that do the grabbing of things, certain goblets and breasts and artist-type artifacts. (my) eyes drop as the ideas hit below the floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment