Dead at Sea

Once again, he was disoriented.  He hoped for inspiration to come; there was no more spark, no more catalyst within him.  External energy was required for him to create art.  This is what he wanted: to create art.  But he couldn’t fight the destitution of his life—paying bills, grocery shopping, observing automobiles as they zoomed

Gertrude

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation. 

Scared and Sad 167 pound Man Singing the Blues

Beat down like a pitiful dog. In retrospect I wasn’t as lonely when I stayed home alone, read, wrote, and played guitar. I go out and socialize with the less precarious and confident selves. They seem genuine, even when talking about The Game. For me it feels pretentious to say hi how are you. Dancing