What can I say? What’s the point of this melancholy brain fart.
Maybe I should write a poem about it.
—Camille Roy
“Not history – fuck! – I mean our presidency – fuck! – nevermind.”
I’m too exhausted to even trail off into nothingness. And this time it’s
politics? Such a bummer.
For the most part I’m still reeling from a conversation I had 2 nights ago.
Til 2:30. He says he doesn’t know how long – no – whatever.
Sleep. Snore. He doesn’t know? DOWNER!
I’ve never thought of birthdays as tragic. Perhaps I’ve killed the illusion.
Maybe I should write a poem about it.
—Camille Roy
“Not history – fuck! – I mean our presidency – fuck! – nevermind.”
I’m too exhausted to even trail off into nothingness. And this time it’s
politics? Such a bummer.
For the most part I’m still reeling from a conversation I had 2 nights ago.
Til 2:30. He says he doesn’t know how long – no – whatever.
Sleep. Snore. He doesn’t know? DOWNER!
I’ve never thought of birthdays as tragic. Perhaps I’ve killed the illusion.
