Two years now on this site and so I guess I should write something. I don’t want to write right now. I don’t want to think about words right now. I want to do something else but it’s too late for me. Woke up at two a.m and it was the same thing, but I guess I should write that it’s late and early at the same time. I woke up with a headache and dry skin, and there are piles of snow on the ground over the trees mid-section covering fire hydrants and I don’t like this keyboard, I still haven’t gotten a new keyboard. I’m profoundly humbled by a boring culture. I don’t enjoy the person I am right now, and I lost my wallet and the coffee is decaffeinated, and why does decaffeinated even exist? Every day you wake up is the youngest you’re going to be, and I was driving into town on the bus again, and again it was just me and this blind lady, and she was so nice and happy, or so I think because I don’t really know her, it’s just that she has niceness in her voice when she talks to the bus driver. I always sit in the middle and read or close my eyes and wait, and writing and my work and my life, it’s the youngest I’m ever going to be, and I was looking at all the houses and wondered how many of them were houses where people were reading and writing, and then I thought probably not that many and closed my eyes and tried to sleep. The night will soon be over and I’m editing a book written on napkins for a series of no interest, and editing my original adventures of a dying young man novel, and two years of this site and I’m not depressed or alone or excited or much of anything. I’m here and persevering in the winter and I’m the youngest I’m ever going to be. I’ll be on the bus again later today and I wonder what the point of any of this is, and I want to get high from my writing again but that just happens like everything else. I want nothing but to be left alone in a crowded room. I want people to read my words and that is all.
Thank you for reading.