Marco Polo didn't know the rules to his own game either, come to think of it.

my own personal infinity is bleeding.
the wiry substance of my future is melting in my hands.

something isn't (write).

but at the same time, i don't think i've ever been happier. or more depressed. or clearer about my own life.

"it's complicated."

of course it is.

i wish i knew what the hell i want from myself.

it's trite. it's cliche. it's stupid. it's in right now.

i just don't have a single particle of confidence left in me right now. it's totally unjustified.

just like that girl on search for the next doll. the gorgeous one who was tall and exotic-looking, but got kicked out because her dress size was just too big. her finger was just not stroking her throat the right way. her dance wasn' t quite perfect.

why didn't she win?

if she can't make it, who's to say anyone can?

it worries me that i'm just too much of one thing and not enough of the other.

someone asked me how i wanted to die today, and i just don't know how to even field that question. shouldn't you have, you know, solid dreams before you think about completely trashing them?

i mean, of course i have dreams. i just don't know if i have the talent or looks or smile or tools to even get there.

i've got a water gun and a paper sheriff's badge. right the wrongs.

i've got a ballpoint and a scrap of paper. write the wrongs.

i can't fucking do this right now. i'm scared. fuck, jesus christ, i'm scared of my own life.