Interestingly enough, I wrote a lyric two days ago to the tune of "semen on your back like an oil painting." Later in the song it becomes "semen on the back of an oil painting."

Collective history is fucked up. It makes me want to delete old blogs, emails, text messages. The other takes the form of overwhelming swarms of information. The self is blurred and smeared in zeros and ones.

Bananamour by Kevin Ayers is amazing. Artists who fly just below the surface of fame are so compelling.

"I said, 'I feel very happy. Happy as can be. And I feel free!'
She said, 'You're not happy, you're just stoned!!!!!!!!!!!!"


These two lines may be my relationships with every woman ever. They are the only two lines in the song "Beware of the Dog," which ends the record in epic fashion. I see myself making love in them. I see myself smoking chronic in the summer sun; I see indifference building in a different building. I refuse to enter. I prefer to re-evaluate what it means to care. I suppose that's why I don't have anyone to call at 1:30am anymore.