i'm sitting here trying to find a meaning to my existence in a bright eyes album. this line allows no progress. it simply ends up curving around and i return here again to sit at my computer typing nothings out onto the pixels of the screen.

sometimes the only way to be free is to go completely insane.

we're all fucking alone. we're all clinging to life rafts of some sort, whether it be another person, a drink, the wheel of your car. we're all alone inside our heads. we're sad in our suburbs. i'm a robot sitting on the back porch with a half-smoked parliment menthol light and staring at the people passing on ep. true parkway. lift, breathe in, exhale minutes of my life in a puff of silvery smoke.

i keep repeating the themes of my life.

eat. drink. laugh. piss. smoke cigarette after cigarette. crumpling the empty shells of the packs into my purse to dispose of later in some half-full trash can. drive. fuck. kiss. talk.

what am i?

this line allows me no progress because it is the circle. and i close my eyes and wish for something, anything to close the monotony of knowing i should be doing something.

pondering. the dichotomy of knowing i should be making something of my life and yet not believing in a shadowy god figure.

i feel cold.

the boy. i have a future again. and we walk that line between sanity and intelligence together, holding on to each other for balance, each pulling the other off kilter a bit. i want to walk into the night with him and never come back, two ageless ghosts walking through the starlit darkness of the world.

i just want to be. all the time. just be.