listening to daniel johnston in my car when the wind blows at a comfortable fifty five degrees is good, its pretty good. The messages in cracked voiced tunes seeps into my bones, concentrating that truthful solution in the marrow, thick like whole milk.
I've been trying to write for a while, scrambling, getting distracted but here it is relatively early and I'm gently rubbing keys in a quiet, dark room - i've had time to think today with a clean face, this is truly a loving place. We listened to 'bruno is orange' probably twelve times and dug our feet in the ground to our own dancing sounds like animals. we forage and forget, its easier to kiss his neck above the V of his sweater even though we aren't together.
I'm tired - the skin under my eyes is dark like the night sky reminding me to sleep, forcing my body to produce serotonin; then why do i dream better with the lights on?
The rain will come soon now, like the birth of lady bugs and 10 am alarms.
good night.
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