Nothing to do, you know? Hemingway as dead as Bukowski andwho the fuck cares? Got to get on withthe simple act of living got to build the house just to burn it down newborn baby on the second floor,mother in the passenger seatas the car pulls away,but this is the sort of shit that is always ...
I am coming to terms with what diminishes my sparkle, what and who makes me feel like I am too much of anything or like something is ‘wrong’ with me.
I am less than whatever I’ve been accused of being, and I am more than what I’ve been given credit for, and the city is what I need it to be