This sickness is brutal. There's a dull throb bouncing between my temples, and a cacophony of cicada song and highway traffic making it even more unbearable.
I feel like Stewie Griffin as my neck struggles to hold up my head. Everything's just a little more irritating today– the side glances from people at my table, the pus-filled pearl beneath my nostrils, this BUM ASS phone ban, it's all sandpaper against my metallic mind.
Well, not really. I think my irritation is just peach skin. Pick it up, boil it whole, and it'll fall away like silk on a tispy socialite. I feel like I'm a very contradictory person.
Or someone who jumps between ideas too much. Not sure what that means, psychologically.
All I feel right now is this headache, EXACERBATED BY THIS HELICOPTER HOVERING ABOVE MY STREET.
I'm thinking of the summer, now. Sufjan Stevens' voice is a linen curtain against a lime-washed wall. So so stunning. I actually did spend some time in Italy this summer. The songs Futile Devices, All of Me Wants All of You, and Fourth of July have been on repeat since then.
I could go on and on about his music. The guitar is so delicate, it's as melancholic as the early sun on marble statues–– tragic like the fleeting gold leaf that drapes their skin before the morning expires.
Idk if that made sense. Idk if ANYTHING I say makes sense. I have ideas in my head that make sense IN there. These quick writes are just a loose translation of the foreign language aftershocks of throwing internal tantrums.
