i feel myself a walking apology for the low energy that sloshes about inside me like the backwash of a flat soda pop.

boys talking about their hair and driving neon motorcycles on the highway sometimes we forget what stars are

there seems no place in the world for such artists as we. the kind that cannot cope, completely, by constructing materially nor painting delicately, but who must deconstruct the very reality and create in its place great fiction which we find more suitable for our tender natures. fictions by nature too lovely to ever be realized in the dull density of this dimension. perhaps the only solace can be to find one another.