onemorepanic

Make me into a thousand happy pictures, page by page across your album. This is the person I want to remember.

Kafka said something about a certain type of writer, this certain type of writer who dreams of his own death, his own funeral, and how everyone'd react.

I guess we'd call that foresight.
I've dreamt upon it daily.

These days I'm looking for something to seperate myself from the shits.
I want to do something beautiful, something to celebrate humanity, something to celebrate us all.
To contribute.

Fastfoward to fortune cookies: You have to become something before you make something.
Or something.

I'm going to find out exactly what happened to my father. For he continually throws out vague yet entirely too relevant confessions at me.

You already know I'm arriving at similar situations.
I'd just like to know, how fucked this gets.

It's time for my right of passage.