lua.

"when everything is lonely i can be my own best friend; i get a coffee and the paper have my own conversations; with the sidewalks and the pidgeons and my window reflection, the mask i polish in the evening by the morning looks like shit."

maybe i should quit listening to artist's who name their life's work after a fictional character from planet of the apes, or maybe i should just pay closer attention. honestly, the bond i share with this man i have never met, is the closest thing to hero worship i can get from myself. i have systematically and unconciously attempted to realize his words in my own life for the better part of a decade, and now i think i have succeded. anyway, i'm feeling lonely, of a deep and unkempt type. i just want someone to spend the afternoon with, watching as the wind swirls the wax leaves on the trees outside my bedroom window, the one with the little handle that says pella, reminding me of a place i can no longer tread but long to go. today i am feeling desolate, the tree in the tall grass i dreamed of so many years ago. within our culture, this empty america, we are all the fields we paved so many years ago. each man standing, straining to hold up his tassled grain and completely lost in thousands standing around him. it's all the same. everyone is searching for the same fucking things. why can't anyone else see that? maybe they do, maybe they came to grips with it so long ago it is already second-nature, no longer troubling. i want to light a fire, and burn our fields from here to deep ellum, forcing everyone to realize that this trivial. for now, i have lost my foothold and am sliding, waiting for the thunderbirds to catch me.

listening to -
lua - bright eyes (i'm wide awake it's morning)
no static - nappy roots (the humdinger)
not the sun - brand new (the devil and god are raging inside of me)