Day 263... ("And then you do both; I can't do both...")

There's something about this: this things-going-on-simultaneously. And nearby there is something about the gaping absence of women in all of these official goings-on, except for atop the cover of the magazines, covering the tale this time. Laugh! You need to redefine the concept of beauty in order for it to fit you.

I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable--like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?

(Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars—-wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this—-muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding ladies, too! Holding on strong with one hand, tattooed calves painted.)

There is this feeling of gratitude; of indebtedness that cannot be articulated, let alone undone, in which we dwell by virtue of existence alone. Life, this world we have for our experience as a thing that will not be spent by any one of us; it is our unification of sorts, or else the basest of all common ground. There is a sense of willingness without shame or lasting doubt. It is a matter of knowledge, decided upon. As in the person within the friend you chose to make; how you wanted to understand their eyes but not those of the faces before.

(Seems interesting, this guy...still life is just the same, redundant breath. And people always have something to say for themselves! But he's soft--too, too soft.)

What's so wrong about belief for its own sake? Why should the value of the pursuit of an irrevocable truth outweigh that of the ideal of contentment, when life is this finite and neither are guaranteed?

Consider the weight of a fitful sleep, for instance. Where are we when we're in between? And how is dissatisfaction this complete if what we think we want is the truth? Fuck that. Where we go has nothing to do with destinations; where we're from has nothing to do with time. Momentary and fleeting truth is not of inherently less worth—-its fallback is quarantined in the limits we put on how much value we're willing to expend, as if its supply could be just so and not a calculated decree. As if we weren't unequivocally aware of our intentions, and ever-willing to deny them entirely, voice. (Distinction?)

(Hmmm...iwishcouldresemblethechordofapiano...one that sounds like this...)

Faretheewell folk,
-LaW