It was much too late to return to a temperature of moderate living, of standard existence. You have behaved too rudely, too suspiciously and the honey isn't always in season. What's the matter with you is the matter with everyone, nothing.
But I know that's just the way of the world. We rock, we roll, out of bed at 2pm wondering where last night went and then we finally decided on making some meaningless art or photographs, trying to express how restless we are. Our cigarettes aren't just cigarettes, they're a symbol of an adventure hoped for and of a bordem found again. An oral fixation wanting to become a physical manifestation. We want new stomping ground more than anything else. We don't really care about fashion, we care about new places, new people. Fashion just happens, it falls. We, as people, just occur. And if we're lucky, we can do something worthwhile while we stop these grounds.
Hippest trip in America, arousing curiosity and ignoring science. It's cold, but we know we belong here. My friends and I make art and capture the world. Lots of the days on the move, we wonder why we do this. We draw new signs for the vagabond capricorns and form new constellations with pens on our back. We walk into churches dressed as the runaways. If we've learned anything this august, it's not to question anything. Not one fucking thing.