"a little bit of blood is normal. a mouthful is not."

"I don't remember you telling me that at all," she drawls, and i can taste disdain. the coppery blood clouds it, but it's still disdain.

it's difficult for me to focus. i miss writing lyrics but i don't even think i have anything left to say anymore. i've given up on all of you, so what else is there to write about?

it's not your fault the pool is shallow. i'm up to my hackles in dreams and distance. the stars couldn't pull this one off, baby, but i'm sure you already know the words to that one by now.

that's a good enough place to start. i'm sure i'll get back to you on that one. so many works in progress, and they're all a little bit of a lie.

Just like when we sat on your roof and contemplated
Ourselves,
Exploding in slow motion like the worst action movie of all time.
And then you told me that 27 was a good expiration date
Because after that, it’s about how you’re going to feel when you die
And not about the radio,
Or kids in Africa,
Or getting an 82 in chemistry class,
And how selfish could you be?

where did i even come from?
focus. i miss the focus. something to write about. it's hard to write when i just don't care. angst doesn't exist. we don't exist. life is a hallucination.

i'm doomed.