Maybe this world is like a giant story book, with a beginning, middle and end. Maybe it's like a giant walk through the Troubadour hotel and starts and finishes with licking lips upon the balconys of new york's skyline. New wasteland tactics and endless dramatics, lovers stay so much longer than they are welcome these days. I'm constantly moving and they keep there feet in line, trying to explain the world from inside one place, but perhaps this is life. I'm writing pages upon pages after its all said and done, because I've got so many hours to kill here, so much world to figure out. I hate time, this is our sickly invention, but again, perhaps this is life. Or, maybe it's more like a novel, or reading a novel, cover to cover, and realizing that you left yourself somewhere in the middle of the two.
First and Apple, sorry for the ramble. I'm going to see the caribbean and all tiny creatures live tonight. Lips covered in peanut butters, sweet madness,
do i ever sleep in my apartment anymore?
eyes and the beach, i need a day in bed filled with cigarettes and french movies.