yesterday i changed the wallpaper on my phone to a photo of the nazgul of the flatbush avenue station. woke up early again this morning, to another empty bed. jenny's congestion has been keeping her up at night; she stayed in front of the television miserable until the sun came up, near as i can tell. my night was a campaign against the land of milk & honey. shaking jericho down to stones. skin like sandpaper, like a shark's. touch me & be lacerated. trying to pinpoint my dreams any better is like trying to catch sparks with your bare hands. it only works for scarecrows, who are immolated in the proccess. not for those with glands, with ichors & fluids, with teeth for biting & claws for scraping. with these gasped breaths, clasped hands. i wake up & this whole world smells like timber, chopped down & waiting to be shipped off down the river. its just locust food, a mine to be stripped. an oil well set ablaze, if i have my way. i'll see it in flames, scorch it till the land sinks beneath the waves to find succour. till all is dark & no presence moves upon the waters. stupid mornings, i'm going to shake this off, drink some physik & maybe some stimulants. today i'm going to go see jenny's ex-roomate be on carson daly's show. blood is temporary, flesh with winnow away. 100 years from now the only way to see my face will be to look at the coins, the statues. or evil photo albums. there, thats better. already i'm not taking myself seriously. fuck, i'm unbearable when i humor my self.