i'm not sure who i'm writing for anymore; i want to live more to write more to understand more to feel more. i want to write with something more in mind; some total nonsense that even i can't determine the structure of or fixate a connection with the outside world; which exists purely inside of me, from mouth to mouth, tongues over and under, ear to neck to fingertips, hollowing out what's inside and tossing it to the page in a legible manner; i need and i don't need this.
i'm just curious what you're talking about over coffee with her, if indeed there is a her or a he, if indeed you are drinking coffee. and i wonder who or what is causing friction in your brain whenever you move. i wonder if you smoke cigarettes regularly now. tell me, what makes you want to breathe, what sounds make you want to dance, and if you're eating three meals a day. i hope you've taken the time to appreciate the night sky and the total absence of light pollution. tell me about the books you've read this year, if indeed you've read a good book this year. explain what self discoveries you've discovered in an attempt to find your bliss in the discovery. i wonder how you enjoy spending your sunday afternoons; are you nursing a hangover from the night before? or do you wake up early to create something on paper or on a guitar? i'm curious about what you love as of late.
i spend my time cursing about the pain in my eyes and i spend my time wondering if this is an appropriate use of my time.