higher. cheaper. faster.

harder.

rusty pink scaffolding. alert. you are walking on a bridge over a brook, over movement, over rocks. there are no tall buildings lurking behind trees. airplanes poke holes in glutton clouds before they burst and make everything stick.

how absent i have been.

'regret' is a word i banished from my vocabulary years ago.

so i feel nothing.

internal pizazz.

i wrote something like a poem a few months ago. it captured this inexplicable feeling of detachment that i'd set my coordinates to long ago without even knowing it. a series of enlightening dreams have indicated that i have reset my coordinates elsewhere. destination unknown.

i think about people in terms of consumption.
before, i thought about people in terms of space.
(there is a conceptual relationship between the two.)

if we accept the world as we perceive it, i imagine that we are all standing in self-made dioramas generating details as we learn and observe new things each passing day.

i am reading goethe's 'the sorrows of young werther'.

sometimes it's hard to fathom how deeply you can empathize with an author's work. with me, every reading strikes a deep personal chord. it is in the words of others that i find comfort in the fact that i am not alone, that my mind has wandered difficult, inexpressible terrain that artists capture in bodies of sounds, colors, and words. there is a twofold nature to my experience with empathy, however. in light of diversity, people seem reluctant to accept, acknowledge, and cherish that there is, in most cases, common ground. diversity, if handled constructively, can create a beautiful palette of colors. diversity can also cause wars.

today, i fell asleep next to an open window.

the city is dressed in autumn attire, the trees expose more and more each day to the cold. (our response to the cold is the opposite of trees.) someone somewhere is asking: "why waste such a beautiful day on sleep?" my answer: 'bitch, please.'

i slept under a blanket of autumn day dreams. in them, i wrote novels and music. i lived in a room with a green door next to strangers. there were mountains, a cerulean colored sea, and anonymity. there was peace, adventure, and bookbinding. i opened my eyes, my window was still open. the glass glazed with images of my dream over a palette of autumn-attired-city-street colors.

i draw no lines. none.