Not sure but there is a feeling of wanting to listen to Wilco & The Psychedelic Furs all day long. I tire of explaining myself to people. Isn't it enough to know that I am just different and made like mountains of molehills and the world spins faster than a top spun by the fat finger of a child? Isn't it enough to just exhale and blow all of my breath in one simple direction. All of my breath pointed towards yr house of cards and they fly right out my window like tiny suicides. They hit the ground like bricks.
Oh yes, I went to NYC. It was just what I needed. I am waiting to scrounge some photos and tell you all about it. I have like five stories. You know I always do.
I think I am about to experience some sort of literary explosion. I am bubbling.