I smell an old garment and think about the past. Whisper through miles and buzz into my ear, parts of my brain translate the jumbled uttering into something palpable. I don’t want to get over it, I have to though; witty remarks can only fill so many empty wholes.
Thinking about life as a structured plot only damages your self-image. Sometimes, I want to dress up as a priest and know what it feels like to be a holy man. I call for delivery because I don’t want to go outside, and I give all of my art away because I want someone to take me home.
My neighbor smokes cigarettes while he rides his bike and yells at students who disturb his infinite circle in the tiny walkway between the Coor building and Matthew’s Hall. Between my neighbor and the blind man in my history of social thought class my mind wanders away. He never runs into people and never misses a step. Helping or attempting to help him only debilitates his movements, makes you feel inadequate.
Becoming dependent on coffee was never something I planned on doing, but it happened anyway. Forget about it in bed, if you can’t you stay up all night. I try to turn my affection to something that I can mold up and tear down. Having the dream about my teeth falling out again, my guitar plays a dishonest chord. Going through substantial mood swings, I think of quotes, none of them are good enough, I want to say it all myself. My chains aren’t locked down, they are just so light that I keep them on.