I am walking down [redacted] Street and I see a woman sitting in front of the liquor store. She has her head in her hands and a cardboard sign in her lap that reads: “Hurt and Abused. Do You Believe in God? Please Help Me.”

what’s better than being in the middle of a dark room?

I’m taking ashwaganda again so I can focus on the task at hand. I will not be a prisoner to the whims of my luteal phase. I have an album to finish. This is what feminism is about.

I’m as naive as I am cynical but I’m trying to be more of the former these days.

There is always more left to say.

I do think that most people are only focused on how they can get love from others but have no intention of ever learning how to love another.

They are stuck in the infantile, oral stage of seeing other people and the world around them as consumptive objects and all they want to do is sucksucksuck.

There’s a frog in my throat. And a rock and a bomb and a flower too. I wake up covered in cold sweat and existentialism. I’m naked. 

no matter what, no matter what, no matter what.

I sit in the dark room of my home office and admire my fresh pedicure. Chrome toenails in fuzzy pink slippers play peek-a-boo and tell me I’m kind of a pervert.

it is the end of a persisting hallucination