this was all i had to say:
im sincere in this madness. we read kerouac. this one kid was all book-headed and he knew nothing about passion. he only burned on paper but my hands were flames and i ran through the halls and the streets and the days sightless and senseless.
or should i say sighted and sensed.
a quiet mark upon my own reservation. this one boy hitchhiked along the west coast. he wanted to just up and shout about street names and streets, places and people. because he wanted to shout about IT.
but i shouldnt go on about things i dont know. all approximations. it feels like summer to me. i just wish it was.
chilly nights with the sun staining the building sides something warm. and it cuts through your body until you cry.
i have been punching holes, not really waiting at all. just listening to the radio, to cds, thinking about records, playing games, burning, burning, burning, talking, splashing, drinking, cigarettes at early in the morning while its still dark, joking, waking, passing out, and really shouting into everyones ears those things no longer hard to hear.