The science of standing in line.
Bad television. I’ve never been more tired than I am now. I wish I could count the white lines that separate the street. There aren’t any lights to show you the road on that part of the world. It’s big. It doesn’t look real. Like, one vast painting. Pictures don’t make sense, not when it comes to that. 4,500 miles. There is this poem by Ginsberg, “Song.” It’s about how love is the only thing that keeps us living. It is our inspiration for life and our greatest burden. I believe that to be the most true. I’ve been looking for a hand to hold, eyes to stare into; a companion. “Do you really like being alone? God damn, of course you don’t.” I don’t like the loneliness of a crowded room and the love I have for an empty bottle. What is progress? What is a pretty face? This sickening comfort found in the company of another. It only last for a moment. The feeling that everything is all right. It departs as quickly as it arrives. Once it’s gone, the world goes back to being a menial string of day to day droning. Standing in line waiting to die. “I sing like this, it sounds worse than it is. I’m okay, okay?”