i find that when i'm out of doors and in the world as we know it, i am soaking. i am soaking up everything around me so that later when i am at home alone in my bedroom i can collect. from this collection i can write, and, with some luck and guidance, something good. except i am not so sure anybody would find what i write very interesting. only because you are not me and i am not you and you could not possibly know everything that works in my head, no matter how simple and tuned it may be. most of what i write is about the world as I know it. well, how else should i see the world, besides from my own perspective? often it's about some boy who has hurt me recently, or something political, or something offensive. but mostly i talk about the heaviest weights on my existence. the fact that i find myself made sad more often than happy. the fact that facts are the truth and the truth is an ass. an inconvenient one.
if i bore you then leave. if i excite you, well, whatever. but if what i write provokes you, come back and i will give you more.
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