scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

18.8.14

breathe, and let the light fill my lungs, my chest, clean, cold water. i write in circles and talk about the weather. You can't see your hand, six inches in front of your face: i remember those days. bad days, i tell you wut. They were all in paris, all together, all the expat-Modernists. have u sen paris? The other stack of younger ones in new york in the eighties, in the nineties, bits of talent getting tangled and angry in each other. Vultures, vultures everywhere, and what looks like huge bats. They must be everywhere now. echo echo echo

Labels: writing

scrawled @ 16:28