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 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
25 years later and all of the ashes have been consumed, we have stayed hungry, we have grown old, have wasted our lives speaking of hope
Truth... a fault line to build your pale eggshell house on, and now that I’ve begun to grow old I can finally see that I was never quite able to grow up.