Well, after the sky split open yesterday, pouring everything horrible thought imaginable in to my head, where they collected and bounced from wall to wall like some horrible childs game, I broke down. I now have a medication that should help with not only times like yesterday, but with everyday living.

Things are looking up today. I just found out that the mates of state, the microphones, and dave mathews (whom im seeing with a visiting friend) are playing in portland next month. At least now I something to look forward to.

my life is just a giant etch-a-sketch and someone decided to pick it up and shake it.

Well, after the sky split open yesterday, pouring everything horrible thought imaginable in to my head, where they collected and bounced from wall to wall like some horrible childs game, I broke down. I now have a medication that should help with not only times like yesterday, but with everyday living.

Things are looking up today. I just found out that the mates of state, the microphones, and dave mathews (whom im seeing with a visiting friend) are playing in portland next month. At least now I something to look forward to.

driving on freeway life, detours and arrests are not uncommon. lost on off ramps, hesitating at intersections. sky turns blue, black, an emerald sheen. above; cities with a view of strangers. I remember torn streets and layers of false sundays. Months of famine and burning outlets. collapsing buildings and eroding homes along the skylane overpass.

“Oh my good god.”

“whats wrong?”

“the sky is falling.”

“oh, but it cant be!”

He was running on concrete bricks through a shower of rain that may as well have been coming from the steady, yet unnoticeable in the weather, stream of tears running down his cheek. He cried and he cried. screaming things. unspeakable things.

A mother ran through enveloping doors, careening down the steps, in the street where she was immediately hit by a volkswagon rabbit.

A thirty-something father sits in a cafe on 33rd, sipping his latte as the shower begins. He does not move. He takes off his glasses and his designer watch, lays them on the table. He tilts his head back, opens his mouth, and his hit by the falling sky.

No, there is no point to this story.

On the bus today a guy sitting across the aisle (brown plaid shirt, adidas visor, white tommy hilfiger shoes), was talking to his companion about how "indie" his friends are.

He asked me if my backpack was this year's burton model. I said no, two years old. He said "oh."

At that moment the man sitting next to me, who had been asleep with headphones on since I got on, begain singing under his breath. Sleep-singing, I suppose.

I wondered where he was. What distant land or world or bedroom he was in. What song he was listening too, and where it took him.

I envied him.

Everbody is talking yet no one can be heard. The man's face is shady, (eyes) sunken in, void and mute and mumbling songs. (no one is talking).

The woman, walking with a bit of peculiar, nonetheless foreign posture, is being gauked at by some local homeless men (dirty faces, unwashed clothes). They ask, albeit quite rudely, for the women’s change. The woman, in a state of shock, thrown from her pedestal of civility, falls over dead. (over already?)

He skips home from work every day(happy?), his backpack clung to his back, a baseball cap hung loosely on his balding head. He sings song as he skips, keeping precise and even tempo with his feet as they tap tappity across the stone walkway. He passes trees and towers and flowers and grass, over hanging branches puzzle the sky, glueing it together piece by piece. (what?) He arrives home, sits on his pleather navy ikea couch just after grabbing a heineken from the fridge. He turns on his television, staring at it aimlessly and blankly. slowly (killing?) himself


The man on the park bench, adjacent the leather-clad pseudo rockstar, is speaking of guns. Speaking of the guns he so desperately wants to use. A sad, boring, pretentious life. he doesnt want it. (he did it)