We're All Stuck Out In The Desert.

Animals are so human, or maybe I should say

humans are so animal-like cause

who gave us the right to say that

they're acting in our likeness?

*

The King of Pop has left the building.

):

If I get home before the rain, you're mine.

I don't understand what is going on with me.

I'm sorry, I really am.

I want to fix this, but I think I'm going to

need some help.

A lot of help.

Dreams are free, motherfucker.

Fuck school, move to America, buy a second-hand old school car

with a backseat you can stretch out in.

Learn a couple dozen songs with the

few chords you know on the guitar.

Sell all your shit and just drive.

Write on the road, write what you know.

Meet people, sing in bars for gas money and food.

Have your friends with you

for as long as they can stay.

Have a plan, have no destination in mind,

whatever.

Some day I'd like to do this.

Parked car, this night sky.

Bar Bar.

Nothing To Declare and Urbandub over the weekend,

transformation to xXscenekidXx again.

[Aww the blue's nothing showing up

as well as I would like it to]

My friends are all succumbing to

Left For Dead.

I just don't know.

*

Somehow my word posts have been shrinking.

Writing's the only thing I've ever felt

right doing, but why is it that

I can't find the things to say anymore?