Drive

I can't stand to be here any longer. The mind is cracking the heart is leaking and there are bits of me littering the floor.
I don't want to be here.
I don't know where I want to be.
That's only partially a lie.
I just want to drive and listen to sweet jazz at 65 or more and scream " Why won't this bastard go faster?" and wash the world into its blur.
You've got to help me with the jive brother.
Things I tell you, things I don't.
Things I tell you, things I don't.
Things I wish and pieces I hide.
Thrown to the wayside for this.
I hate this breakpoint.
There are too many things that I miss.
Heaven help me.

Struggle

Must. Work. Through. Depression.

A night of "Principia Discordia" and whiskey sounds beautiful.

Now just need 5 lbs of Flax.



I really don't want to be here anymore.