sometimes my eyes sting like i'm going to cry but they are so dry that it burns and i wonder what would happen if just my eyes caught fire what would happen to the rest of me.

other times my eyes close not like my eyelids are being pulled closed by the tiredness inside me but as if they were being pushed by the this enormous crushingness outside and i just gave up trying to keep them open so they were crushed closed.

sometimes i think my chest is just empty, as if my esophagus and my heart and my stomach and my intestines and my lungs just weren't there and it was just blackness inside and if i am not careful, the crushingness is going to cave in my chest and there will be just nothing.  and if i'm not careful there will be black hole, like a mass the size of a world of pain and emptyness is being concentrated into one point where my heart would be and if i'm not careful i'll get sucked in and everything about me will get sucked in and nothing will be left, not a trace, not like i werent there but like i never existed.

other times just my lungs feel empty, and no matter how many deep breaths i take they just wont get enough oxygen because they cant and theres nothing i can do to fill them.

i could see the moon out today.  during the day before it got dark, there it was white and bright and high up in the sky which was purple behind sutro tower and i could see everything up to twin peaks and up and up the sky gets blue and blue until theres that bright white almost-moon just hanging there with the blue and the purple and the red of the tower to the green of the hills.  so i let the crushingess close my eyes and i waited and i took a deep breath and i waited but nothing happened.  so i kept walking and i could feel the pavement beneath my shoes beneath my feet but i couldnt hear my footsteps, and i could feel my arm in my sleeve but i could hear it because all i could hear was-


i can hear all the cries of the city
no time for pity for a growing tree

there is a world of pain
in the falling rain
around me.

and i'm sure that in a while i'll look back and read this and wonder what it was like to be myself at this moment.  and i'm sure i'll laugh a little or smirk in embarrassment at the version of myself that i am now, and at the version of myself will be then and how hard i used to try.

i keep thinking that i had learned my lesson about trying, that i had learned it and learned it and learned it but it seems that i still need to be taught.   and i keep thinking that just maybe i havent been thinking at all.

 At certain points in time certain thoughts are impossible to express, to articulate, to put into a language of words, not feelings.  To make the intangible tangible and force a concept, a notion, a feeling, into the small confined boxes of the dictionary there is a loss: a sentiment or a subtext that is inevitably lost in translation.  A system of spoken words, a language which is used to communicate these intangible...things, is so inexact and leaves so much out of the original, a speech is just a shadow of the thoughts behind it.  a word is just a hollow shell of a notion or emotion.  It is impossible to know exactly without a doubt that you can understand one person's innermost sentiments because it just gets too jumbled up in the sound waves that vibrate through the swirling air into your ear canal, into your brain, into your mind.  There is too much at risk to even say anything at all.  I once heard someone say that the english language is so much more extensive than others, that there are so many words for the same thing, but all with different connotations that imply different things.  they said this in the hopes that we would use that extensive language in order to articulate with precision our ideas, but I don't think that precision is possible.  I don't think that english is better or more direct at all, i think that english is just as frighteningly inexact as any other language, and that people should communicate not by words that have such delicate projections and implications, but by nothing at all.  If without words people can still be drawn to each other in the way that builds relationships, the way that people just get along and are comfortable with one another, then they don't need words to express themselves, because they already have, without the necessity of announcing it.

The majority of the words that people say are obvious.  you know how some people believe that if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all?  well i think it should be that if you don't have anything worth saying, don't say anything at all.  it is better by far to say nothing than to prattle about the nothing that makes you nervous.  People seem to panic in silence, because of silence, but the silence speaks louder than the words that fill it.

And here i am, writing and writing about how useless it is to bother writing.  Even in this, there is not the exact concept that i was thinking about, there is not the exact meaning of my thought expressed on this page.  It is intangible, inarticulated, and ultimately it is lost to those who are not me.  it is impossible, it is infuriating.  it is just such a waste of time.

 Everybody seems to think i'm lazy, i don't mind i think they're crazy.
i'm just tired, i guess.  i just want to sleep, i guess.  i don't want to see or hear or get up or eat or talk or think or breathe.  i just want to lie. i just want time to stop.
funny thing about time, it never stops, it isn't something that you can control, something that you can hold in your hand or see with your eyes.  time keeps on slipping into the future.  but i always thought that it slips into the past, constantly.  never ceasing. every second.  literally.
i watched a good movie today.
i talked today and nobody listened.  as usual.
i sat in my room today and i-
and i-
i-
i just want to sleep.  just let me lie.
just let me-
let me-
stop breathing, stop thinking, stop being subject to time that never stops.  stop closing walls and ticking clocks.
ticking clocks-
clocks-
that nobody can hear, because nobody listens-
nobody listens-
nobody listens to me anymore.

I expect nothing, so I am rarely disappointed.

 claire, shit just got.
but what if i ran away tomorrow?  what if i were to do what he did?  what went through his mind.  i wonder.
"racket" is not spelled with a Q.


i just think it would be so weird to go home and stare at the ceiling after a normal day and he-
Maybe he was just watching tv and then he went and he-
Maybe he was home alone and he-
Maybe he had dinner with his mother and he-
Maybe he told her he loved her and then he-
Maybe he didn't say anything before he-
We'll never know, and he'll never know that he shouldn't have.
I didn't even know him.

 The first hitchcock movie i ever watched was dial m for murder.
my favorite is rear window.
i can think of five that i like better than vertigo.

my head hurts my leg hurts my heart hurts my brain hurts.
my eyes are dead inside my skull, my fingers shrivel inside my hands.
my toes curl my jaw snaps shut.
my body curls my mind snaps shut.
and then  i explode like a barrel of flour that's stuffed with dynamite, pieces of me flying           every which way and falling and falling and falling and falling until the dust settles           and everything is covered with white, and foot prints are printed in the powder as a         single person walks through the room and realizes for the first time that
my life hurts.

I have five clocks in my life.
Only one has the time right.

Don't ask me what the time is, I
Don't know, only know i gotta go now.

One more for the last time.
Don't you throw our dreams away.

If the time to you is worth saving, then you
better start swimming or sink like a stone.

it's the right time to
roll to me.

and i know what's been on your mind, 
you're afraid it's all been wasted time.

good times, bad times, you know i've had my share, but my woman
left home for a brown eyed man and i still don't seem to care.

it's crying time again, you're gonna leave me
i can see that far away look in your eye.

Made good bloody-marys, kept her mouth shut most of the time, had a little Chihuahua
named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind.

Ah then you gotta split because you got no time to waste
I'm waiting for my man

You took for granted all the times
i never let you down.

My hands are so cold that my fingernails are literally turning blue.
It actually hurts the joint in my right ring finger to press a key.

If i were an author what would i like my fans' letters to be about?
I would want them to be all about trees and their favorite kind of shoes and about cartoon bears.
I would want them to tell me about their second cousins and pigtails and the things that they admire in a person.
I would want to hear about their best friend when they were seven and why do people have an appendix anyway if they are always being taken out.  
Why would i want to read something that deconstructs my stories and pulls them apart like corpse.  Why would i want to read my own words quoted back at me like someone re-gifting the watch you sent them.

Why does everything have to be serious or philosophical? Why can't people just have picnics and sit on the grass and stare up at the sun and count the clouds?

 I sort of miss the way things used to be, but i don't want to go back.  I am much better this way.  More like me, less like others.  I just wish that i didn't care so much, that i could forget sometimes and stop thinking about it.


Tom Waits is genius.  Batshit insane, but a genius.