Hello.

It is summer break here at my school, a short three week break, but a summer break nonetheless. Anyways, I am flying far, far away from this place, at which point I am unsure whether I will update this thing.

I had spoken previously of a project I am working on. I will be recording several songs on a multitrack recorder, essentially producing a low budget album of my songs. Unfortunately, our mic seems to have failed us and it will be a few weeks before a new one can be afforded.

so.

I recorded a few songs using the built-in mic on my imac, and edited them with a basic single-track editing software. I uploaded two of them. You can hear them if you want.

Everything will disappear - The vocals, to me, sound kind of goofy at first. And, given the poor recording circumstances, this is the best I could do.

Today someday - My attempt at playing the keyboard.

anyways. be good while I'm gone. don't forget santa is watching.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked, gasping for air as his stretcher was carried from the ambulance, in to the hospital, towards the emergency room.

"I had a dream," he said, "I had a dream that I had died and that it was ok and you were all there and I was spitting up blood. It was all ok though. Until now. The dream has been hushed behind the quiet buzz of lucidity, and I can feel your foreign chemicals invading my blood and attacking the natural course of things."

"Please, calm down, you are needlessly alarmed. In several months you will walk again, you will return to society unblemished and ready to serve, to live for the american dream."

"I want to dream again. I want the rivers and ocean and the trees and the peace. I want to slip away to some exotic island designed for me, to slip away for eternity. It would be alright then. It would. It would be alright."

"So," he said, walking down a busy street with screaming cars and towering buildings. The sun is setting, although it can not be seen, in fact the sun barely reaches these parts of the city, as the buildings tower and filter the light.

"Do you think that, well, I don't know. If maybe we werent here, and that things were different and colors didn't appear the same and music didn't feel the same, would it even matter?"

"I don't think so at all."

"ok"

"Thats good."

I was going through one of my notebooks for school a little while ago, mainly skipping through to stop at the many doodles. I came across a page of random thoughts that I scribbled down whilst on a bus, coming home from school one day. I think I posted a portion of it the day I wrote it actually. But anyways, here it is, verbatim, mistakes and all.

Pretend its madly scribbled across college ruled notebook paper.

I wish the sky would quite its incessant, mind depravating shower of crushing bricks neatly tucked away in rain drops.

The mans face is shady, (eyes) sunken in, and he

Everybody is talking yet no one can be heard. (no one is saying anything).

The man on the park bench, adjacent the leather-clad pseudo rockstar, is speaking of guns. Speaking of the guns that he so desperately

Here is a letter I wrote to my dishes.

Dear Dishes,

So, I've come to the conclusion that when I load, soap, and start the dishwasher, strange things begin to happen, and I think I know what is going on here.

It's mutiny. A quiet, sly mutiny.

You see, the thing is, I have not eaten from a clean dish in five months because our dishwasher simply does not do its job, and I believe it is not only allowing, but actually promoting this mutiny. The mutiny of you, dish, and others like you who refuse to come clean, is a direct betrayel of my will.

Ok. Step one: Put dishes in dishwasher. Step two: put soap in dishwasher. Step three: close door and turn on.

I do all of these things. But still, no clean dishes.

The dishwasher is a place of washing I tell you. It is a place of cleaning, sparkling, and shining dishes. To intervene in this natural act is to dishonor your owner.

Thats me.

So, dishes, you better shape up or I swear to god I will break you.

Thanks in advance,
Josh