There are times when it feels like my insides are hanging in strips after they've been grated from my body by a blind old man, and I'm walking through them trying not to touch them, but I can't help it.
For the most part it is music or art that fucks me up in this way. And that is for sure the case now. The combination of Frightened Rabbit, Lark and Termite (the secret fur oh man oh man), Blake Butler, and an old story of Steve Kanaval's I recently came across hidden in my desk has done the trick. What can I do but write and write and write.
I feel like I'm running from myself toward myself. Gross.
I am going to tag this entry "beer farts."