"It began as a mistake." -just like that goddamn Bukowski.
If my teeth are chattering then we're probably at the right place and time. And it's probably a mistake and I'll probably take my words back. Oftentimes my emotions and impulsion have me so tightly constricted that the only other solution I can come up with is to profess every single haunting and taunting thought or idea in my head, place them on a table, and put them in fucking order from least to greatest stutters. But once my chest deflates, I breathe in a chatter and shake my head for it all to go away again. I told myself to stick to writing these hopeless, sappy letters oozing with melodramatic drunkenness and a disgusting cycle of repetitive desperation. I don't fucking know why I did that. I don't fucking know.
