"Step Away from The Cure Albums" -or something like that

Running from the Rain

"Hear the summer counting down"

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I am beat down by the sun. Not my stubborn hands that have flirted with winter even come close to a steady stare in the open. I sung along to a song, hoping something up there could hear me.
My frozen yogurt souped up in a swirl of my favorite flavors. My hair a fiery hurricane. The car welcomed a breeze that was exceptional even with the degrees running up to 97.

I wrestled with my thoughts today how far gone I'd nestled myself in the dream-like summers that used to never end. While everything today ends. The days are of exact velocity, exact frequencies. Nights are of the same dreams and nightmares, formed in a fetal denial.
The decisions I make don't seem to point at a direction remotely near where I can see. So it almost doesn't matter. So it almost doesn't matter that the hole will never be whole.
At least not today. Everything today ends.
And I make less sense today than I made the day before and before. But it almost doesn't matter. What anybody reads here almost doesn't matter. I really am just fond of...repetition, ha.

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"I'm in a deep state of depression," and you can laugh

Silver Lining

"I hate small talk and the empty days"

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I've attempted to post about 3 blogs over the past days, but I couldn't get my thoughts processed into something solid. I'm just...incredibly blank lately.
There are no lyrics to describe where I am at the moment. Even my radio has left me alone, and I've done just the same.
What this summer has done...
Company is not what it used to be. My friends don't play who they used to be. I see Jawsh, I see Ace, and that sufficed for all I COULD see. The relationship with my phone is breaking and fading like all my friendships hung on that very same thread. And maybe it's just the lack of stepping into each other's days once in a while, but we hardly do. We don't talk like we used to, and maybe they don't notice. Because I was the one that drew myself back, as slow as I could. But that mattered, and they did notice. When did I?
The best is that I won't wallow over this. I just remember it, and I feel that wave of some heavy grayness. This is just summer, isn't it?
I don't know when I began losing my way, but as of now, I'm not even aware that I'm still walking.
I trapped myself in my head all summer. I peeked my head out when I needed to breathe. And that took me, isolation in the subtlest of ways; a personal choice that I didn't realize till I found myself completely sealed when I needed to let go of the tightening in the pit of my stomach.
Why can't I say anything? I have difficulties even thinking to myself, afraid that someone would hear me. So I avoided.
One thing I received in all my nonsense is that I can be as alone as I can, and I could go on. And I could keep going until finally, I might just star in someone's thoughts. But I don't wait for that anymore.
Even my radio has left me alone, and I've done just the same.

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Blondes, MY Blondes

The Missing Frame

"So please don't wake me"

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For a second of a now memory, I've never been more whole. I could sing as loud as I can, volume flailing to the heights of implosion [HOW CHEESY IS THAT]. But how can I help it, when for a second of a now memory, I've remembered how to let me be. And I didn't challenge myself with the equation for Train A and Train B, because the answer doesn't matter. Train A is taking me to Train B, regardless the bliss or wreck, and whether they collide or leave me at the station, I've had my ride. I was bound, and we've always been. But how amazing to just be.
So, I look to my left, and there they were. I was complete, and I let it go. Just for a second.

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Louie Loves the Sun

Dead On Arrival

"I know I'm not your favorite record"

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This is a phase when I'm not such big on words. I prefer action today, and maybe tomorrow as well. The sun is beating, and sweat's hunting foreheads. The irritation is contagious but always so friendly that even the heat wave thumping out the next person is forgivable. Because you know you're just the same. What else to do than enjoy this?

Perhaps it's just not contagious enough.

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Batboy's Got his Licence

Island in the Sun

"We'll never feel bad anymore"

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Hip hip. Batboy's got his license, gimme some gummy bears. Some sappy movies with April's, the theater's nearly empty, and a way down diabetic lane in a cup. The thought of raspberry-filled, powdered donuts still gives us winky shudders, ALL the dozen of them. And in the midst of just a few silences, then comes the prank call you'll never be able to get over; Chinchilla. You'll get the cut one day, and you won't think it's disgusting. My couches are your minions...bastard! The bitch is sleeping, alwaysalways. Hollister shirts are meant to be that way, stop your whining. I should whine about your too-high trousers. Gelatos that suck up your college fund, and we never tipped the waiter.
Batboy's got his license, expand the already unusual horizon.

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Farther than the Circle Travel

Date with the Night

"We're sweating in the winter"

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Till I'm numb to the very bottom, I can sit and wait or smash my face. Then dream some nightmares and incomprehensible lyrics. I could pretend I'm singing them and mouth myself some words just to impress you. You can watch me, or pretend too. There is everything but the two's company, and my companions complain for some comprehensible lyrics. "I think his friends are stoners," she said. And I don't care why, for her reason is no longer mine to hear. Even the irrelevance busts through its significance.
I over-use, over-play, over-run the words in my book. They have driven me deranged to the same point and perimeter. The same way of tone and waves impatience.
I'm graceless, left my manners to cancel that out. I don't grow the same fruit as my neighbor, nor do I tend the lawn and garden.
If all but to sit and wait or smash my face, till I'm numb to the very bottom.
Down to the last nerve, even that had given up on me...

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As Big as the Heart that Closed in.

Untitled [The Cure]

"You never quite knew how to make them believable"

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Hey friend,
Don't worry. Don't fret. If there was anyone that I'd like to prove me wrong, I'd like it to be me. And you'd be the perfect rebuttal.
Friend, your shell so secured, enveloped you unreachable for the reachers. Compact and untouched, not quite intact. And all the familiar things leaving with out a good bye. Since when was good bye, good? The idiot with the oxymoron, probably regretting ever saying such a phrase.
Who's brave to even attempt the metal detector? Friend, why do you have a metal detector? The blame, who to blame. Adam and Eve, weren't they the first? And the blame's been passing on since then. The last person...being...organism...spec...in this universe is the last to blame. Hot potato was meant for the next person, the other person, no no not you, not me. I'd burn my hands, and why would any of us would want to burn our precious hands? Mine are clean spotless, redless, I always convince me, are yours?
Don't worry, don't fret. This all is all our responsibilities. It's change, isn't it? Absolution isn't the solution, anyway. No worries, no worries. If your feet were cemented on the ground, the happily you wanted it, the pavement would be yours, along with everything you wanted. But is that all you wanted? Even everything isn't enough to cover it all. There's always something else...
I won't conceal this with a promise, because even words aren't mine. I won't grovel and scream, because I'm right here. But just some words for the long run, there are no other contours like yours. So it's right here where you've left it.
Listen to me, don't worry, don't fret.

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Awake

The Artist

"Love, will you turn out the lights?"

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Exhaustion doesn't lead me to sleep anymore. Exhaustion leads me to the frustration of the night.
Night; the most relentless of any time. The day has its sun, its light and glory. It has its people and action and consequence. Night brews mares, even for the conscious. Action is personified to all animates, all inexistent. And I don't sleep anymore. I draw a blank and pretend to catch rest. Eyes shut sealed stress. Face pressed breathless to a slipping descend. But I'm fooling to pass the repetitive drudge of 360's and tangles.
Unconsciousness doesn't erase, doesn't remove. It pauses you for a moment, drenched down to your mattress. Lovers live for a night on the mattress.
It's the closest thing to deactivating time.

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Some Long Intro

Disintegration

"Holding my breath for the fear of sleep again"

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They begin me slow and steady, adding a few here and there. The ancient timing illusion created sweetly for a touch that I want more and more, and nothing less. There comes the tension and provoking desire to get to where I need to be. No urge that'd relinquish until the voice may so slyly take it away. There's no such morbidity that can smother me euphorically till it's enough to consider a crime. There's no such forgiveness existing to claim that this I've coveted will ever be returned. There's no such release enough for a tunnel infested of damned secrets. No such breathing that could live through a drowning. No such need.

There's no such anything, and you'd lie just like I do.

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