so I had this dream we were a map of the midwest. you were ohio & I was michigan & I was all over you & it was so fucking hot your spine was on fire all the way down to cincinnati, & god damn if that ain’t the most depressing thing because I knew I’d wake up wishing I was kentucky & your ankles were a river wrapped around my throat, but it don’t matter either way because motherfuck if you aren’t always telling me the same thing— it’s not happening, uh-uh, not in this time zone, brother, or any other place.
reading about social life in the 1920s-30s depresses me because it sounds so much cooler than today- you just chilled at your apartment and drank and danced and listened to records instead of like, getting wasted and playing pong and making out awkwardly in a closet or something.
What is the hardest part Of being alone? It’s the quietness, A stillness making What ought have been a home- a house. It’s filled with beds, But those lover’s nests Are Empty. And the thought is As occupying as a dream. A dream you cannot feel Because the loneliness is keeping you awake
With no one to hold down your fears And keep you safe.