Not Here. But Here.

Last night I had a dream I committed suicide in the most famously known way.

I closed my eyes and almost immediately found myself in the path of a bright, golden yellow wheat field in a country a million miles away from home. Nothing else could be seen beside the gold, except for a few complimenting trees that extended in a deep green. The sun was just about to fall and it respectively casted an additional glow, bouncing off the spikelets. The air here was fresh and aged; it wasn't touched with the stench of modern day city sewage. The trees in the distance had lived their life effortlessly, and swayed with natural gusts of wind.

In all the beauty, I was suddenly hit with the most traumatic shift of hate and torture towards the outer world. People's faces that I've seen on the street floated on the inside of my eyelids and I wanted to scratch at them and force them away from me. The gold spun around me, and I could no longer make out the individual stems of the wheat.

I seemed to be undergoing my own Nausea, and it was pulling every limb of my body in separate directions. I continued to twirl around, breathing the clean air through my nose and trying to free myself from the hate and break-through towards this clean air, the pure.
It had become too much now and I pulled out a revolver from my overall pocket. I cried. I wanted to be here. I brought the revolver to my chest and faintly heard the echo of the oncoming shot.

I closed my eyes as I hit the ground, but I did not see a bright light. Instead, I felt the cool, damp dirt on my cheek and the familiar gentle brushing of the wind. I had failed at what should have been the simplest task, and cried furthermore. I rosed slightly and shifted my weight onto the palms of my hands. The dirt sank with my weight as I looked over a hill in an attempt to see someone near by. There wasn't. With a head hanging low, I then pulled myself back towards home and lied down until my time was finally up.

How I come home

i want to chew on you like pomegrante seeds

i bought too much clothes today that i can't afford; i can't smell, either.







I've lost it.

73 degrees all week.

"I thought I could handle it but I fell on my knees near Sydney. Who is Sydney?"

"For them that looked for the way out and found it:
This.
There were holes that grew as doors with looking for
them,
And for those that walked through with their heads
high as kites,
This.
Where were the holes?
In man, in woman, in bottles, in the tattered book
picked up from the mud on the rainy day by the
railway junction.
But the whole of wholes, the holy of holies, where was,
where is
This?"


"I do not want to work here any longer. The people are crude, and the grease slips around their lips as they complain. They'll always complain."

"Florida may have it's palms, and its tropical aurora, but it cannot give me the satisfying warmth of another when the world feels cold."

"Do you think they accept cats in here?"

"I smelled cinnamon brooms today, and wished for snow and the bodily warmth I would feel in layers of cloth. The air is dry and humid, and I'm lonely in my skin exposing clothes. Everything is a dull green that hasn't changed in years, upon years. Everything, that is, except the sea. The sea will always remain as beautiful in colors of blue, green, and beige. blue, green and beige. blue, green and beige."

"I'm alone Florida, and I'm in yellow."