Fuckin' Journal Entry and Shit - May 6

So the rain goes, drops vaulted from leftover puddles.  I am 19 going on 20, and I have not budged from this bench.  Legs folded, no crossed ankles- I mean you gotta keep them in flames somehow.  I know the way to walk that will keep you watching.  I am still the twisted little sexual grey sheets machinery that I was two years ago.  But now I know how to move too.  Although I have not.

I still don't mind the eyes drifting from ankles to the crease of the seams of my shorts.  If your perception is linear, is any sort of pattern, then I constitute a work of art.  I've got the faded tension that was stirred in the hollow of a guitar.  I remember the feeling of biting metal and the decomposition.  The rust.  I remember when we spoke.

I see the demise we encountered in dotted patterns, the bets of who would die first.  I am the restlessness that you tried to evacuate from my body.  I am the "you bruise easily."  I am the vulnerability, the softness, the dirt and polyurethane.  I am the defining of everything else.  I gave everything a name - the former Adam.  Life cigarette to cigarette, bed to bed, there is nothing but me and if I deny it, it will refuse to exist.  This is not self-centeredness - this is philosophy.  This is history.

I remember the umbrella lizard creatures, the night that I only selectively recall.  The man, the request and composition, and my tiny lovely bearers of disease.  The hallelujah.  The hallelujah.  But what I saw most was the destruction of all things.  The inevitability of creation, of death, of architecture burning softly.  How quickly everything moves!  How soon?  How soon?