outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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09.02.04, thursday night

I am uncouth. I am always late. I can never be professional. I am childish. I drink too much. I like to carouse. I have too many ideas and not enough momentum. I live only for this moment. I take Mercury Retrograde way too seriously. I want everything to be perfect and because it usually isn't, I would rather hide and read a book. I am down to toss knotted fists for my ideas and convictions. I am an awful poet. I fixate on details rather than what is ahead of me, details like the cut of a suit, peonies blooming on a cheongsam, or the way a red balloon rides in the sky above the suburb surrounding a former concentration camp.


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