quasi_sean

the possibility of silence

is alarming.
isssss fucking impossible to breathe.

the soundtrack as follows:

nausea nausea! the parole of agony. here here.

The Velvet Undergroud: Sunday Morning

(i got me one good bookmark that tells time when i am not watching.)

The Smiths: Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

(oh...laughing at the sunrise--no scratch that! i believe it was that cannibal december--those mornings when we followed the last true coke-head televangelist thru the hallways and streets of Houston in search of either a place in the world or half-dead hookers who would stare at you for hours thru thin, vile, eyelids that were fading green/black.)

Duran Duran: Electric Barbarella

(because your appetite for apathy and semen is appealing in some other way.)

i miss you here. i miss you here.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

part one of a symphony. a lovely one. i promise.

Now, somewhere I will sleep. Somebody will find me. Someone will find disorder and realize it's time to cut the ribbons around my lungs. I admit defeat. I'll follow for now. No more bottles. No more insane reactions in the early hours that follow a nitemare. No more stoic resignations.

You will see me cry.