Friday I’m too bored to fuck I tell my hookup so he leaves and here I am, alone again inside the morning and my bed where I text the west coast things they won’t read for hours because they’re always in the past. Wake up! It’s Friday. There’s a war.
Oof. I feel like I need to tell you a story of what it’s like. To be forever wondering what wonder looks like. To know we are all going to die and some of us horribly. In pain. Alone. In despair. To feel a thing beyond wanting. I don’t know anything but I know time is circular. Rhythm is a dancer. Time is a construct. Possibility is a thing you create with wood and nails and a powerful saw. And eventually we breath. We smell. We fuck. We sigh that last gasp after the last gasp. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
Ugh. You are so good. I forgot about life without your writing
Voice of the people etc
Exactly
Oof. I feel like I need to tell you a story of what it’s like. To be forever wondering what wonder looks like. To know we are all going to die and some of us horribly. In pain. Alone. In despair. To feel a thing beyond wanting. I don’t know anything but I know time is circular. Rhythm is a dancer. Time is a construct. Possibility is a thing you create with wood and nails and a powerful saw. And eventually we breath. We smell. We fuck. We sigh that last gasp after the last gasp. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
Why does reading it make me sad?