Living above a cafe

has taught me:

You have to demand
for your personal space
to be respected.
People do not simply grant
respect.
You fucking earn it because
otherwise people just LOVE
to walk all over you.

This is not only true of cafes;
this is true everywhere.

Oh and also, the cafe I speak of
has employees that are so hipster
with their god dang jello music
that they ruin everything for me.

Fucking bitches.

Physics

is like art when Sal draws it

and talks in its language

so delicately.

Twenty-Three

One
two-three.

How did time
go by so fast?

I sit in this moment and
tell myself I am wasting it
instead of just going
and feeling it.
I regret my choices
before I even make them.

How bitter will I be
at 
four-five…
at
six-seven…
if I am even allotted
that much time.

My birthday present

is Of Montreal’s new album. So. Excited. For. This. Shit.

Playing Diplomat’s Son in a bar in SF is the best when everyone gets up and dances with you.

Always tired,

always sad,

always alone,

always mad,

never truthful,

never inflated, 

never beautiful,

never conjugated.