I’m smooth today. A good razor makes the sun just float down my flesh like warm water along the skin of a baby softened by a dusk in July.
This past summer in my city was relentless in its heat and wickedness, an unbelievable onslaught of asphalt swelter that drove us all towards whatever wetness we could sniff out. Now in the midst of autumn the blue sky has become a true stranger in a land known for soft overcast and since up is now down and right has become wrong, no rule left holds water or carries weight.
There is no better friend than one that tells you you’re truly being foolish.
There is no better enemy than one that continues to behave purely foolish.
Is it yet established that Tool is one of the greatest bands in the world but one of the worst live shows in the universe?
My fanciest camera was stolen today. Though machinery can be replaced, the images on that memory card cannot be and that’s a far larger tragedy than the fact that some sad-sack douche bag lifted one of my most prized possessions. The crummy feeling of helpless violation is a nasty thing to try to shake off.
Why does texting stress me out? Why do I feel compelled to immediately answer and if I don’t the weight of anxiety presses my shoulders into a forlorn slouch that can only be remedied by me thumbing over my phone, appeasing each message with some obligatory vacuous reply?