it's strange-- those grey days when still
you squint against a hidden sun

sometimes,
i think i am nothing
masquerading
as someone

sometimes i think i am an angry cat in a box

sometimes i think that i am only capable of feeling
two things:

adoration and sadness

i wonder where the
sprawling expanse of
middle ground is

grapple with square hands and still
can't find it

these moments
are the only time

i am not angry with time

maybe

(and i find thus
that i am capable
of three
things)

Aloysius

I've decided to name my son Aloysius. I almost wanna go out and get spermed by a random right now so that I don't forget this genius idea.

Don't despair, (or) pick up the Russian book. (Don't) clean your fucking room! How can you breathe with all of that fabric on the floor? How can you fall asleep when there is an open door which leads right to your bed where you're unarmed and undefined and thinking (what once was mine was mine was mine, was mine, was mine)?

---I don't really think it was mine. Think about it all of the time. Don't fucking think about it!---

Empty glass bottle don't read the Russian novel. Wear the big red silk bow in your hair. And don't despair. (Despair,) despair, I really don't, not anymore, I'm whole and white as an egg, living on the hoe stro' do you know what that means?

Don't trust anyone.

Don't debate, don't contemplate, dissect, attempt to rectify, don't remember:

(Don't.)

Keep it on the thinnest of both wrists, and I won't break you.

the past few photos have been drtikol 

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