October 4th. Marx's Grave is a Communist Thought.

Outside my front door the floorhallway smells like cherry popsicles childhood. It's strange and sad and stoically silent how they manage to bottle a perfection like that and use it to clean shit-tiles with in little apartment landfilldings tucked away into nowhere. I live on St. Marc. Nick and Norah were all around St. Mark's Place. St. Marx place. Swing with me, sixties. We're running away, running away into the night. We're never coming home.

I had almost forgotten how I can't deal with stress without slipping into suicidal ideation. Mmmm-hm. My bike got stolen. My spotlight never got turned on. Christ, I hate myself. All these thoughts—"crazy vs. talented, more sex than i've had since two months ago, i got what i wanted before it was what i wanted and back then i wanted something else anyway. sick, six, sick. metro cars. metro cars. fuck."—

and i'm always trying to recapture in words that image in my head (that imagine my head) of the old, broken men, arms crossed resting on rakes or shovels, staring at the clouds as they roll, roll, roll out. watching. waiting.

and it's beautiful to me in my head and the image imbues the words (for me) with something powerful but i think they're stilted outside of my skull. who knows. who the fuck knows.

i miss the idea, i miss it, i miss everything. i miss my stupid bike and worrying about it. i just need something to love, and someone to listen when i say "i had an epiphany today." i guess epiphanies are like dreams; they only mean anything to the person who had them. anyway, they're too ethereal to remember properly after a few hours. so fuck it.

i feel heavy. i'm weighed down by all the million-weights of the waiting, of the eternal waiting. beauty and the way it makes me smile only worsens the time in between. listen to me. someone needs to take me out back, shoot me in the head with a bolt-gun, and make glue of me. in death i could finally keep things together. kiss kiss, bang bang.

i could go on for as long as this window's capable of expanding. let's not and say we didn't. everyone has better things to do. if you'll excuse me, i have a date with a pencil and my memory of some coming mannerist attraction and a piece of paper where everything is nice in my brain and comes out all shitty. b+ eternal. i need to learn latin so i can be even more depressing. that or go back to reading emile zola.

i wonder if even one of any of my fleeting angry crushes ever caught their eyes on me, where i'd be. i'd have thrown it all away—i'd still throw it all away—for some hand-holding. maybe the beatles were right, after all. we all live in a yellow submarine.