I'm deleting this blog. As soon as I get rid of all the residual nostalgia/baseless guilt which plagues me second by second.
I like Okkervil River.
Somebody, something needs to help me take a hot sledgehammer to the fort I've built around my heart, because, neat as it may look to have such a tough-ass fort withstanding all the blue blood and the red, it prevents me from writing anything worthwhile. Worthwhile meaning anything long enough to get to the point. I'm taking everything in, and I mean everything (sandal straps, beads of sweat, threadbare buildings, jingling change, sirens, sirens, sirens), but nothing's coming out. Nothing's. Coming. Out.
I'm filled to the brim. I'm spilling over, right off the edge, into black holes.
Nothing is more painful than having everything to say and no reason to say it. Is this really necessary?