fuck a title

there’s something about having all yr chances pull away like city busses, leaving u standing there in the rain, there’s something about not sleeping for most of yr twenties, there’s something about piling up revenge plot upon revenge plot in yr mind, like a stack of bricks that u want to bash his head in with but know u never will, so u waste precious time meticulously carving yr name in the side of each one instead, there’s something about the ocean sucking at u in yr dreams, how u wake up and feel the futility of ever having a sustained feeling, there’s something about the sky and the sun, when whole weeks go by and u only see them as patterns on yr wall, there’s something about selling drugs, and how maybe it was the only thing you were ever really good at, there’s something about men, and how the line between them taking care of u and taking everything u are (and locking it away in a box beside the bed) gets blurred without u realizing it, there’s something about women, and how u always feel like an outsider to their secret society, the same way u feel a sense of utter bewilderment at the rush hour crowd coming home from work while u stare at them from behind the filthy windows of a dive bar, there’s something about writing, and how u feel that what yr doing is cherry picking words out of the air, creating yr own, neat little controlled world of secondary intensities when what u really want, more than anything, is for yr writing to be like sounds no one has heard before...

u want to write virgin sounds.




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