I have nothing left in my room to read. All my books have done their dances - many of them twice. So I write.
But I guess the truth is, I'm tired of writing... of reading... of speeches and words and all things having little or nothing to do with image and music and colour... Of having so many thoughts and no longer any adequate medium through which to express them.
Never meaning to sound smartypants or profound or intelligent - but only to have less in my head. Inevitably, however, this is how they arrive.
Packaged or canned and brightly labeled for categorical reference and later use or simply tossed into the Pointless Pile.

I also seem to suffer from an inability to express this without sounding overlysomething. So, I hope none of this has come off as terribly as most of what I say.
Sleep is in order. I imagine it must be fun to work in a coffee shop on Halloween...

Nooooo. The mucus, it's coming. Where the heck do random colds come from?
Please just be allergies.

its almost my season again darlings
broken toys alive in autumn leaves like spinning tops
and cool winds on our skin come like california kisses
oceans of trees turning colours like buttons pressed
and no water to be found
wondering how emptiness is filled by the roaring in our ears
and our shadows dance in sunlight to protect their frozen toes
when frothy clouds roll in like warm milk to feed the dust.
hello.