Thursday, July 30, 2015

I never imagined myself writing books but sometimes I read authors like John Fante and I wish I had.

I feel diseased. My index finger nail is painted gold. Today I fought with my mother twice. My inability to string thoughts together anymore might have come from all the weed I'd smoked, or is it? Was I just never capable of it or was I just of easily tampered temper?
I feel deceased.

Ask the dust.