Travel.

I am sitting in my room right now and it is early or it is late. Time becomes meaningless after enough sleep is lost. I have sheep that never needed counting, whose wooly heads adorn fake cashmere sweaters in open air markets.

I have returned from traveling and it is sometimes enough for me to look around and realize that and sometimes it is not. I feel like shit, as I ate fairly unhealthy food the entire time I was there, so this week it looks like I am basically doing a detox programme. I like spelling certain words in the British sense - it gives them a more fair sense of dignity, like those words died for freedom and for the world to know that freedom was worth dying for, once. Maybe it was beyond the stark grey trees that bloom wherever men congregate, maybe it was before everything we loved became an epithet.

I am listening to a dashboard confessional song and it is moving me and that fact makes me want to never listen to music again.

I talked to Sarah last night and everything in me wanted to stretch across states until it could wrap itself around her and keep her safe from everything. I don't know that she needs to be kept safe from herself but I would do it anyways, I would let her hate me if it meant she stopped hating parts of herself. Every movement is a celebration, every song is another votive candle.

I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep. I cannot have any more thoughts. They sting and bite so deeply, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I stopped thinking entirely, if my body simply took over and lived as it wanted to live, if it fucked like it wanted to fuck and sang with every animal's death song.

-Rich
we were against the windowpanes