i've got this scab on my face. i don't know what it was before it was a scab. a mole, maybe. a beauty spot. depends which suburb you're in. whatever it was, something scratched it and turned it into a little knub of blood crowning a little knub of skin, right there on my cheek bone. i don't know how long it's been there or when i started doing this but i keep pulling it off. watching it bleed out and dry up again; locking its doors and barring its goddamn windows.

it's raining

those bats were crying so hard up in the trees that the sky joined in.

good mourning.

i'm not really much of anything right now. i have been having a lot of sex. a lot of something that alludes to sex. and i pretty much just occupy myself with sex-related activities in between all the sex i'm having. i make my text messages as dirty as possible. i dish out heavy double entendres.

there is a lot of sex, is what i'm saying.

i realised earlier that i've lost everything i built up in my head since 2004. i lost my empire. the characters and connections just died out and blew up. they're gone. i don't even work words anymore. there's nothing pretty to look at. i developed some sort of style, i had a vague rhythm and flow once upon a time and now it's gone. it's all gone.

i fucked it out, maybe.

i have this chance at a normal day-to-day, you know? i'm in love and i sleep and i go out and drink grande mocha latte fucking floats or whatever yuppie beverage you wanna slip in there. i wear short skirts; sacrifice my modesty for self-claimed sass and flick my hair liberally at traffic lights.

there's nothing there though. i'm not content with this. i'm wasting my muscle and my mind.

i think i want to write music.