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February 2nd, 13:04
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I spend the first few hours quietly reading. There is no music, there is no talking, there are no people. There is the noise of outside, the low murmur of thousands of people entering then exiting my life, unknown to them and unknown of me. I read. I do not read often, I do not read as much as I think I should, and it is harder these days to find the quietness to read.

After, I walk to the bathroom and urinate. The sound breaks the spell of hours and I am no longer in the mood to read. I am there for some time - not to imply length - watching temporal waste exit my body. I watch with one mind, while with the other I idly pick at scabs. They come off in my mind's hand, but they are ready to come off; there is no welling of blood behind them. I am saddened, for I miss what the blood represents. The ritual ends, and I am done with transitions. I sit down and begin to write. There is no music, there is no talking, there are no people. There is the noise of outside. It is enough for me to write.
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December 8th, 03:29
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When I go down, I go down on you
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September 8th, 01:58
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I feel like I am waking again. Difficulty sleeping.

I always felt beautiful and interesting awake, but it is so much easier to sleep.

Things broke last week. The broken is so, so alluring but I know it cannot remain unfixed forever. Things that don't get fixed are thrown out.
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February 5th, 17:27
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Unlimited supply begets unlimited demand.

Animals consume with impunity. Their population starves down to sustainability, strengthening their stock, or down to extinction. Conservation is genetic. The religious mania that grips people in a belief that what is here remains here is a truth proved lie in our own lifetime.
Unlike the other animals, humans cannot consume with impunity for their consumption very often salts the earth - we will starve down to dust.

We could achieve anything with unlimited resources, it is said, but we have barely achieved anything with the resources we have because we refuse to recognise them as limited. We build cities and machines and glass and steel on the backs of starving and diseased peoples. We create items that bleep in casual announcement that thousands of people died. We listen to slave music without irony. We ask ourselves in the tv every night "please, for just a dollar a day…"

What virtue is there in the goods of selfishness.
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January 29th, 17:19
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Today.

I want to write more, I want to tell all the dumb silhouettes about me so that none forget. But. There is a thing inside me. It is Wrong, and I chose a long time ago that I'd never make it Right. Or it chose for me. There is really no difference.

I overheard a conversation today, of women talking about their children, and the thought occurred to me; nay, that implies other - I thought with a certainty the same way I feel this thing in me in a manner that implied it was not a new thought but simply something slipping into the stream of my consciousness from the banks. I thought to myself, "how sad it is that I will kill myself before ever knowing children."
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January 17th, 01:20
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Mending is never as fun as breaking.

Nights of electric men, cold silent winds, amber tears in the dark verdure. The steps I take are laboured, I have been so weary these last weeks. The lows are getting lower, and the highs are too.
The sleeping pills don't work. I need to be awake to feel like this, because feeling is so much more comfortable than the quiescent numbness that I identify as being happy. No, MarĂ­a, I am never happy. I lie. I've known happiness in moments, but it is so hard to hold onto in comparison.
Happiness caresses, but sadness is the one who embraces.



This is my hole. It was made for me.
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December 28th, 14:24
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Today I am balanced enough that I am seeking out the comfortable abyss of despair.

I want to still miss One, but I don't; today.

I want to still want Three, but I don't; today.
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December 24th, 13:31
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Like a mnemonic I conjure up that image in my head. Those eyes looking at me with a tenderness I've never seen in them, with that unspoken vulnerability of someone without barriers. My hand cradles her head from the side, thumb on cheek, and her hair falls over my fingers. It crawls out from my brain like a spider's nest in the spring, skittering over the fronds of my nervous system with a million uncountable legs. The mother spider, couched in web, watching the swarm dissipate over the meadow.

I'm addicted to this; to desiring. I don't know if it's simply because it's a marked departure from the emotional numbness I retreated to in order to survive, or simply because I've finally unshackled the plague cart from a stallion.

She asks me what I think about while writing and I tell her "love and heartbreak". She apologises. She doesn't understand that you can only have your heart broken if you're willing to put it under the hammer, and that courage is worth more than anything else in life. If she breaks my heart it's because I chose to let her. The shards flicker across my skin, tickling it into anticipation and heating it as if from a forge. My breath, leaden with desire.

Each moment of denial a turn on the handle, coiling the spring tighter. I wonder if she will even be the one holding the box when the lid bursts open.
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December 20th, 14:28 If you build it, they will drink it.
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I have lost my soul several times over to a girl. Fallen, allowed myself to fall, relished both the feeling of wanting and not having. Addicted to the cycle.

On Thursday I found some cocktail glasses I'd gotten for last Christmas and never unpacked. The notion occurred to me that it would be pretty cool to be able to make cocktails on a whim, so I stockpiled all the components of a margarita.
On Friday two girls showed up unexpectedly at my door. Margaritas, and I woke up in the morning between them.
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