i could compile nice lists of the things i did today on my day off. or i could relate important discussions that jenny & i had, or make adorable mention of "important rock shows." i could even talk about subconscious digestion of things. but fuck it, you know? fuck trying to communicate a state of being thats alien to everyone else. or well, not everyone else. my whole theory is predicated on a defiance of solipsism, at least in part. if being right means being alone, i will be, but i'd rather put my bets on the hive. call me an optimist- i've been called worse. instead i'll sit here with my allergies acting up, a cup of wine in my hand, a girl sleeping on the futon, & a head a-buzz with what it means to be me.
m: "i'm just trying to make my way." jenny: "no you're not. you're trying to destroy the world. don't give me that." m: "well, okay."