And all these stupid, silly things. Keeping flashing through my head. I’m trying. It’s just really hard. I never have much to say.
What if there was a blanket I could make out of words? For shelter and comfort. To hide away from the sharpness of the setting sun. From the fear of each day. All these stupid silly things.
I dream of palm trees and winding California hills. The slums and Venice Beach. Echo Park. The Valley. Silicone. Pen these things. Jot it down. Faded neon lights and surf boards. Bleached hair, naturally and chemically. The way the ocean rips across the sand. Filling my ears with exploding roars bigger than bombs.
So tired. I’ll never understand. It’s okay. It’s okay. Stupid. Who reads this blog? Is anybody there?