Ehhh...It's late. I should probably go to sleep so I wake up at a decent time. There's a tampon on my desk, and I'm not exactly sure what I should do with it.
Been reading Naked Lunch. William S. Burroughs, man...That's some insanely confusing yet stimulating poetry. Except everyone makes remarks about the title. It irritates me...a lot.
Ehhh...I don't know what to do. I feel like I just can't write without pushing it out of me. And I haven't got any good music left to calm me down or pep me up or anything. And friends are fighting and things are being thought that shouldn't be thought in a day and age such as this. But, then again, to think at all is a dangerous thing, much like owning a sedan. The ridicule of the automotive world, a sedan is. I wish I was a sea lion. I wish I was the sea.
And now I shall go pick chrysanthemums at the twilight hour and bring them to the graves of Poetry and Relativism and Reason. And they shall shine with an irridescent temporary light for a few seconds and then go out. Like candle flowers. And the boys on the island will bury humanity's last true refuge with a conch.
And the grey-green ooze seeped out of his junky eye sockets, and when it was all over there was nothing but elastic skin stretched over the bone and a steam rising from his needle wounds. They gaped open, emitting the foul fumes, like greedy mouths, like starving piles of flesh.
 I'm morbid and decadent.
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