a Thursday night. been listening to housemates singing over guitars and candles. the sweetness of human creation. the persistent sensation that there is a piece of my magic i can't access, and that it is blocked by this psych drug I take. missing missing missing it...

 

are you my angel?

In the wake of such a massive love, such a magic drive to create, the longing stuffed me into its tight marsupial asshole and farted. The hood went up and my eyes sunk into little slits against the cold, stupid masses of New Yorkers. Life took shit after shit on me and I matched the donation almost every time.

Most people I know, as much as they front, are walking disasters. Baffled by the shit their minds and bodies throw at them, they build elaborate but ridiculous-looking forts to escape the threat of insanity and the marching drums of age and death.

Brave face to the world/ But quaking inside with fear/ Of being unmasked