I'm going to type from here out without looking at the keyboard, all my thoughts, while listening to Bush's "Golden State" album. Stream-of-consciousness, at 3.48ish am, and a little beer left.
Getting into the groove now. Where ... wait, I know where my bones are. They're inside my skin. Bemneath my littleknown muscle. Gavin's voice is fucking fantastic. Take another sip, commit to this expirement. Forget the inevitable typos, try and forget where your fingers know the Backspace key is. Get lost. Ghost man. Stare into the black ceiling of the inside of your eyelids. NO. DON'T open your eyes.
Oh, ain't that the truth. I'm at my best when it's on me. Ghost man. Ain't nobody that can save me from myself, for I am an ominous power in my own life... one who wreaks havoc, one who... loses bones. And that's the truth. I lose bones.
(Alright, I admit it. I just opened my eyes. And I realise that I'm typing better than I should be able to at... 3.53am. I'm going outside to have a smoke, tying a bandanna around my eyes, and hoping for the best. Or worst. Whatever.)
Oh man, I just ate a bit of grilled cheese sandwich that was laying around the house. I have no idea whow long this thing was sitting around! It's... crunchy. Okay, back to Bush. The things we do to the people that we love... Well, I gues we hurt them. That's pretty much true, or else it wouldn't be a cliche. We w3ish them safe from harm, that's what Mr. Rossdale says. But I think he's wrong. We wish them good, but sometimes harm is in the sake of good. Sometimes there's harm in the pursuit of good. Sometims you have to ride your bike down the street, around the corner, out of your parent's view, and you are in DANGER. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Well, that's what happens.
(DAMMIT, I took off the bandanna and read what I wrote. I'm leaving the typos and randomness, but I broke the vein of honesty I was getting towards there... Alright. Take three. If it doesn't work this time, I'm calling it quits.)
Here goes. Bandanna se4curely tightened. I can only hope that the tape holds. Still listening to Golden Statye... and it's a mixture of nostalgia and hioping. Hoping. I had to type=-toufh thate from memory. Shit... there. There's the little nubvs on the keys.
I will post thils. I know it's wrong. I know it's not the polished thing I put forth. I know it's not the pressed, tattered-jeans, perfectly planned motif I usually show. I'm... tired of that. I'm tired in general of not knowing if I'm real.
I'm going to type that statement slowly to make sure I've got it right.
I want to make sure I'm real.
I hpoe I got tha last part right, 'cause this ssentence isnb't. Oh, I've forbidden myself the suse of the Backspace key, so I hope you can make sense of any of this. Fuck, I hope I CDAAN.
no don't read it yet, don't take the blindofld off....
Feeel the msuic. Type to the rhythyu. Find the colume, turn it up.
Remember writing lyrics? You wanted to expose yourself to the world, not in exhibioutinst picture form, but in words, in memories, in thoughts, in ideals, in behjaviousrs. It never worked, did it. It never worked. So... you can try writing something different... or stop. Just, you know? Find a respectable fucking job somewhere.
I can't take the blindfold anymore. I'm taking it off, reading what happpened, and then going away. Not forever.