all this music quiets my head. but the other thoughts still fight for rank. like, 'how will i get the money', 'do not forget...' and 'band practice.. hope i can show'. and then there is the steady background noise of what if what if what if. *stop music- let myself think* i dont wear enough color. i should leave the house before 3pm on some days, just to change it up. i should stop writing.. it just brings me down.

pouring out soul in pen and ink and here in pixels, leaves me a bit empty sometimes. yet i still squeez and wring the life out of me to make stories. i am a story, i suppose we all are, but for some reason i always feel the need to be published.

and even so, i still feel like the library book that hasnt been taken out since like 1990 and then was returned without being read. i write sequels and i write sonnets and i keep building my own shelf in some grand, imaginary library of "people care". and, yes, i suppose it could exist, but i have yet to see an old man, or a child, or a lady wearing pea green, or anyone for that matter, get past the cover.