(Written on a napkin while incredibly stoned and hiding behind a bush last night.)

The light from the stars is nothing, no more than the mist that exits my mouth in scoops of infinitesimal dots. I am nothing, a floating spirit that speaks in meaningless riddles.

We talked, for a second, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. No one was there, not even me. In the depths of my recyclable cardboard cup, my insides were mercilessly thrown up.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??

Aucune de mes amies

ne m’a compris,

quand je pleure dans l’église,

elles me disent:

C’est la vie.

Aucune de mes jours

ne prend par la main,

j’attends en vain

ce que je crains:

l’amour.

Aucune de mes nuits

ne m’apporte quelque chose:

une tendresse,

que me presse,

un rêve, une rose…

Je n’ose

de croire que c’est la vie…

That night at the hotel, in our room with the long empty hall outside and our shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floor of the room, outside the windows the rain falling and in the room light and pleasant and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer alone, waking in the night to find the other one there, and not gone away; all other things were un-real. We slept when we were tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have been alone while I was with many girls and that is how you can be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it kills you too but there will be no special hurry.

we were lonely, so in the dark my skin touched yours and your lips touched my body and i thought about it while it was happening. the record player skipped for a moment and then veckatimest came back on until it wasn’t on anymore.

I danced in the rain this evening,
the top of my head and shoulders receiving
the sweetly freezing beams of sky.
It was so beautiful I wanted to die,
so I wrote a song that needed more accordion
in essence it might have been too Edwardian.
And I sit upon my reading chair,
dry now except for dripping hair,
wishing the bus would drop me
directly in front of Glazer’s Coffee.

“How long have you been a smoker?”

“Twenty two years.”

“Well, I think you should quit.”

peterwknox:

ohryankelley:

Go, Mordecai!

(via: bohehehemian)

full of shit and stupid people

and jpgs and vimeos and facebook status

and profile pictures and comments

and meaningless self validation.

i’m quitting the internet, and going out for a cigarette.

the adventure life | The Happy (Not So Childish) Art of Building Forts

On BART the standing passengers grip onto bars to keep steady as the train accelerates and stops. They grip metal bars that smell like blood and clinch their fingers until each knuckle is white. Back and forth they rock, putting pressure first on the left side then on the right side, aching for stability. They are a second from collapsing and falling onto the handicapped woman. They are a second from loosing control and letting the big chunk of meat called the body tumble around the car.