No thinking for a little while.

But it's hard to find friends at four in the morning
And I'm walking barefoot trough a field of broken glass and cigarette butts
And The only two people that will talk to me are Jeff Mangum and Anne Frank
And the place I'm living smells like a curry and also cinnamon
And I wish the stars were brighter.

Right now my love of modernism feels lie a sham.
I need salvation, or at least a resolution.

But it turns out that's all you can't buy at four in the morning, that and people to hangout with.

My mind is being so singular, so insistent. The birds are all singing now and it can't possibly be for me, they are singing for another barefoot meanderer who's being led by god knows what. Lonliness maybe? They're hoping for something to fill their mind with, their revelations are echoing and they feel empty and cold. But these birds aren't for me. I still feel empty.

Why do I keep checking my email at this time?

An overwhelming urge to not give up now, but no clue about what I'm working towards.

This is the opposite of life affirming. My body will fall into the ground if only I'd let it. Or float towards the sky.

Dreaming of a simpler time that never was.