Sunday, December 02, 2007


this little man font kills me quietly on nights like this with an obnoxious body and deflated memory. everything falling out of favor to make me sick like all the rest. this pattern grates on you and comforts me, so fuck you. letting it all go. i'm not apologizing for this shit and i'm not losing any more sleep over some abstract dissatisfaction, okay? all there is is what's in my head and i'm so very okay with that. none of you can come close to me, with anything resembling sincerity or touch. my stumbling makes me feel alive, this music keeps me going, and i will stay dirty for as long as i live. clean is for tv and tv is for zombie boretards. approval means nothingnothingnothing remember? i have one person in this world, and we were both born in goddamn washington, okay? in some sawmill town that i don't even remember the name of sometimes. so stay behind the yellow line and let me play my music at full volume. it comforts me to no end; it is the only thing that can make me be okay with being awake. BORED COMMON distanced perfection makes me want to hit repeat and sleep. i will die at some point and that will be that. until then i will never fucking relinquish my temple of albums and bedsheets. unplug your fucking computer if you have to roll you eyes at this. ain't nothing new around here. my home is entirely made-up and set to the tune of a bruce springsteen song. my promise is long since forgotten. any potential has evaporated, leaving only this smug confidence and sickening repetition. i still fight back the urge to use my knives on myself; my survival is an unexpected benefit of my laziness. and the unquenchable desire to hear the next fucking song. hide everything away from me, otherwise i'll just obsess and inevitably fall down. is my effect working?


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