sometimes i can be so fucking james dean it sickens me. i mean
my back and brick walls outside of clubs, form right triangles, and there's 180 degrees between what's real and what's desirable, and i can wear my denim and my denial like the must-have accessories for fall, and i have them all, and i can front like i'm a trendsetter but i'd be hard pressed to find a runway that displays my "chic from a shopping mall" self-deprecating brand name bullshit word-hurse. carrying dead languages and dead sparks with girls who fit me the worst. but i keep striking the dead flint like a square peg in a circle, like trying to start fires without fuel, without oxygen. but i must have a surplus of that shit, i mean, when you take it pure it's hard to get off it, right? so that must be what i'm feeling, either oxygen deprivation or some crush on some hourglass girl who wouldn't give me the goddamn time, and it's 5 minutes to midnight, motherfuckers. until doomsday, until we all say merry Christmas to nuclear winter, and i can wear my scarves and caps and sweaters to hide the bruises on my knuckles from punching timecards and punching drywall. making a living, and feeling like dying after lowball remarks and too many highballs. and not high enough standards, 'cause by now i guess i've lowered myself to your level. making general statements about my future as a incompetent, incompatible lover, it's like i've got the matching pillowcases but i fucked up on the comforter, so now i've made my bed and you will not join me on it, ever. because of some stupid interior design flaw. you like the way i present myself, but not the way i'm put together. you just like the IDEA of my devotion, like you give to the collection plate after falling asleep during the sermon. eternal damnation vs. a weekend in boston. ha. like there's really a difference between them. it's all strong flecks of red in a sea of white paranoia and old-guard oppression. but i thought we could free ourselves from tradition. you know, that long-distance bullshit wouldn't be so bad if you stopped making excuses about not coming. we're not hitting a rough patch if you've never actually met me! you were just intrigued by my habitual lying, but put off by my honesty and good-hearted allegiance to a sort of sighing indigence. to think i actually found pleasure in saying to myself, "yeah, they're all bringing me down to their standards and systems, but there's someone out there just as different as i am." turns out there is, in matters of faults and lack of reliance. but you know, i would take those too if you hadn't made the whole ordeal seem so goddamn futile. i get it, we're young, we're talented, we're the next generation of beautiful. well, maybe i'm the old at heart and the next generation of miserable. and i need support and i need my tired bones to have some cradling. i need a whisper in my ear and i need unholy screaming. say i'm silently safe and scream that you'll feel endlessly better if i just layed down dying! because conflict breeds conflict breeds eventual rekindling. and i've got no problem with breeding. i wouldn't care if we had fights as long as someone was winning. and we could share the prize money, be it from a title fight or an award for your films or my writing. we could've been something fantastic, but to look that far into the future is nearly psychotic. i just would've liked to attempt it, but instead i got the shortest straw and walked out into the desert. and i haven't had a single meal i could throw up or a bottle of scotch in ages. maybe even two or three days, if you can imagine. but i see someone coming. if they're here to tempt me, i hope they brought extra provisions, because if i play devil's advocate and you play angel queen, then the devil's hands are idle playthings and mine are guided to this keyboard so words can flicker on this computer screen like flames from brimstone. and you'll wear your wings like a kid who just met the pilot on american airlines flight 86 to midwestern festering nowhere. so have a nice journey and don't forget to read about me in the papers. i'll  see you on the cover and you'll see me in the police report for public something-or-other, but that's okay, because i knew you at a time when none of those things mattered, and we were just two young kids who considered being lovers, but then like all good things,

we never started.
we never mattered.