I'm sitting here trying to figure out Sunday morning soundtracks. I've got on Will Oldham, but he just doesn't seem quite right. Earlier today I wandered around my house, it's empty, devoid of any life but my own, it's new and strange like this. There's no one around to curb my behavior, and I've realized that going into social situations is becoming more and more difficult. The lines between alone time behavior and out in the world behavior are starting to fuzz.
Stop with the crazies. That's added to the to do list. I have it taped to the back of my bedroom door, it's listed right underneath "call Voltaire" and "paint bathroom thinger".
Interesting thing about noise...it works backward. I think I've ranted before about how love and music are one in the same, let's add noise into that mix too. It's never quiet when it's suppossed to be, when you need the silence, when everything depends on it. And then in those moments that you just need to be reminded of sound, that delicate synesthesia, the silence is grotesque.
Music is important to me. It substitutes emotion.
This week I had the flu, it was miserable and my enemy. Yesterday was the first day I had woken up vaguely resembling a human, and today I'm looking around and I need to play house more. I need my brain to splatter the walls, and not in a gun shot wound kinda way. I'd probably loose my security deposit if that were to happen, with the cleaning bills and all. But again, my body worked against me, it broke down and stalled out. It kept me awake when I didn't want to be, and it made me send delirious emails at 5:30AM to friends to see if they were still awake too, to see if there were other humans out there or if this strange migrane isolation was true. The sun comes up early now, and it's set by the time I get home from work, elongated nights, I like it better in the dark right now. It just seems safer. But I've been sleeping too much lately, we'll have to put a stop to that.
I removed you, you know. Some of you visit in dreams and do the things that we'll never do in reality, some of you still irritate me, some of you tell me to die, and some of you have just forgotten. But you...you I removed. And I doubt you'll ever care, or you'll ever know, or you'll ever see the things that I dedicated to you, and it doesn't matter. Surgery sharp, and I had a whiskey night that needle day. You've been my landfill, and now I take it all back. I doubt you ever really happened anyway, I think you might have been one of my drunken illusions. Now I've got steering wheel hands and terrible daydreams, and I'm sure it won't amount to anything, and that emptiness is comforting. There's no room for disappointment when you have no expectations, and everything can be as simple as sips of absynthe on a rooftop with strangers or pouring vodka and leading the march to absolution.
You were right, hell is other people.
Stop with the crazies. That's added to the to do list. I have it taped to the back of my bedroom door, it's listed right underneath "call Voltaire" and "paint bathroom thinger".
Interesting thing about noise...it works backward. I think I've ranted before about how love and music are one in the same, let's add noise into that mix too. It's never quiet when it's suppossed to be, when you need the silence, when everything depends on it. And then in those moments that you just need to be reminded of sound, that delicate synesthesia, the silence is grotesque.
Music is important to me. It substitutes emotion.
This week I had the flu, it was miserable and my enemy. Yesterday was the first day I had woken up vaguely resembling a human, and today I'm looking around and I need to play house more. I need my brain to splatter the walls, and not in a gun shot wound kinda way. I'd probably loose my security deposit if that were to happen, with the cleaning bills and all. But again, my body worked against me, it broke down and stalled out. It kept me awake when I didn't want to be, and it made me send delirious emails at 5:30AM to friends to see if they were still awake too, to see if there were other humans out there or if this strange migrane isolation was true. The sun comes up early now, and it's set by the time I get home from work, elongated nights, I like it better in the dark right now. It just seems safer. But I've been sleeping too much lately, we'll have to put a stop to that.
I removed you, you know. Some of you visit in dreams and do the things that we'll never do in reality, some of you still irritate me, some of you tell me to die, and some of you have just forgotten. But you...you I removed. And I doubt you'll ever care, or you'll ever know, or you'll ever see the things that I dedicated to you, and it doesn't matter. Surgery sharp, and I had a whiskey night that needle day. You've been my landfill, and now I take it all back. I doubt you ever really happened anyway, I think you might have been one of my drunken illusions. Now I've got steering wheel hands and terrible daydreams, and I'm sure it won't amount to anything, and that emptiness is comforting. There's no room for disappointment when you have no expectations, and everything can be as simple as sips of absynthe on a rooftop with strangers or pouring vodka and leading the march to absolution.
You were right, hell is other people.
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