nothing piece

i'm tired of everything.
i can't f&ck, spend or read my way to happiness. , my disappointment
exhausts me.
everyone i speak to is worried about me,
and if i was silly enough to think about it, i'd be worried too.

all i can do is plan my way around this.


___*___*___*

THE FUTURE I'M MAKING, IN WORDS:

there's the river, you can see it from my window, and the swans; in the mornings crisp clouds; night after night of reading, thinking, the eyes of my brain and its little mouths so happy again; more James Blake please; finally at last all my life i've wanted a tshirt with this on it here now it is mine, here is one to send for mom and here one for dad and here 16 more for me to last me forever in case i forget that i made it i made it i made it i'm a somebody at last (or at least have a shot at being one); this blazer is light grey, this one is corduroy and navy, these trousers are woolen and thick, these socks are argyle red; my bike is my everything, it takes me places i need to be go (always far, everywhere but here and far and farther); perhaps it's time i loved someone again (perhaps it's time i remembered how to do that) (perhaps it's time i remembered to believe that it was a possibility); the amphetamine breathlessness has gone away; no one knows me - i am anyeverybody i've always been, always dreamt i could be; i will fall asleep in your lap again, and you will play with my hair and i'll cry at all the years that i've lost this feeling and pretended it wasn't real and it couldn't exist, for my own foolishness i'll cry; this is my favourite grass hill, i lay here to listen to Shostakovich and stare at infinitude; no, sorry i don't have a phone; the future will be possible again; i'll believe in things other than the friday afternoon rush of respite;


___*___*___*

tomorrow is here already. i've lost again - again before i begun.


___*___*___*

g'dammit the new Grouper album is magnificent.


___*___*___*

the thought of sex sickens me. every weekend i feel used; fatigued by a steady stream of women who pretend to visit for a chat or tea, but won't leave till they're three orgasms deep. i count breaths in my head the whole time wishing i was alone enough to practice Bartok's four Dirges Opus 9a, or just play my favourite 8 bars of clare de lune over and over for 80 minutes. ___(she leaves. i shower. sit at the piano, happy with my silence at last. ___the phone beeps. ___wanna watch the rest of twin peaks? ___i almost break down crying)


___*___*___*

there is a god in all this.

i have to remember that.

maybe i will take up origami. maybe i will. 


___*___*___*

run Orestes. run.

f&cking run.