11,040

There are some of us whom Miranda July will never fall in love with.

Our shirts are blinding blue. Ultraviolet.

I am living in an age that is absent of exclamation points, and semicolons, and parentheses. There is so much bureaucracy just to get a questionmark. Words get so endangered. There are ages and ages of lava or ice.

If my fingers were to engage a circuit, shall i manipulate it until far far past my bedtime? I would like to feel nineteen. I would like to feel nineteen ninety six. Staring into space, being lost for words, innumerable words, thoughts forming sinkholes, psychedelic daydreams, captured by a presence, the gravity of a lust, unbearably high and unbearably low.

Time is the eldest prozac, it fucking seems.

Deletionism. 5th-floor insulationism. Icecube deaths beneath the poisonous vapours of perfumes of sixty-year-old rich women.

Resurgence and gospel.

When i wake up next, north america will be turning towards the sun for the 11,041st time.

I will resist the urge of thinking that i have some sort of obligation to those that observe. I should know.

I will have a song. It contains the phrase "broken bullet", which is a play on Neil Young, who is very old.