At the crest of a sobriety worth cataloging quietly, I silently contemplate - oh so violently:
Fantastic time of year to sharpen your tools. The big shows in town but who's paying for the fools.
I'd write it all down but I think I half like this town, I mean I don't mind the music but god damn I hate the sound
of all the enthusiastic, overly-considerate inconsistencies of people. Mainly myself.
Just making them though. Maybe to throw. Or maybe just carry around like a clown that deserves to be at the very middle of a rather spectacular explosion. Sweet volatility I'm starving for something bigger than me. Oh my don't we all get a little delusional when we're hungry. Could you really eat a horse?
|If I had the choice, I'd make it so there didn't have to be so many choices.|
"You're gonna get old before you grow up" and every day since then I pray he's right.
It's gotta be the reason;
When you're down, and you're hitting a wall, you just fucking do something about it anyway. And you breakthrough. You get up, and you try again. And then something real happens.
Sometimes something really good happens. Sometimes something really great happens. Sometimes, Life is fucking amazing.
And then you get that feeling in your stomach.
When you remember why it is you try.
When you remember why it is you're dedicated and committed. When you remember why it is you wake up and do what you do.
And that feels the best.
Like butterflies and brunch.
So exciting, so damn satisfying.
And on and on the story goes. The peaks and the valleys... Sometimes you slip - if you slip don't fall. And for your everyday malady's there's alcohol.
And so concludes this substance absent, substandard account, of an abstinence not worth writing home about.
And in closing I think I'll have breakfast again, thank god its 420 AM, Amen.