We make coffins from iron ores
that we dig up from the planet's core
Then we fill them with all our dead friends
And bury them back in the earth again.

Is this heaven?
Is it hell?
Did I do this to myself?

I just want to make the bad dreams stop.


I hate your voice.

What I am made of and barred by.
Me. A prisoner of my flesh.
My mind.
Solitarily confined
for an indefinite term.
An inmate 'til I die,
what world can exist in me?
Which reality can I perceive
beyond these
gruesome walls?
A sentence undeserved
since the moment of my birth.
I feel too big to exist,
and because of this,
I cannot fit on this earth.
Too wide for this space,
I came down from the stars
Across blacks holes and dust.
I touched comet tails and Saturn's rings.
I dug my heels into Mars.
My whetted appetite for perfection.
My insatiable lust to be home.


Christmas Wish List!

  • Another Tiffany's charm.
  • A weighted hula hoop.
  • Double nose piercings.
  • Wooden easel.
  • Dynaudio near-field BM studio monitors.
  • Native headdress.
  • DVDs: Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Some Like It Hot.
  • Rings.
  • An Asian teapot.
  • Mechanical singing bird in cage.
  • Harry Potter Lego.


Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I’ve been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
I don't really have anything interesting to say tonight, but this photo made my heart beat really fast when I saw it.


Some people have real problems.
Deny your basic human instincts.
Accept your fate and exist.
Work for something instead of waiting for it.
There is no time in the world for wishing.
Purge your poisons.
Disarm the enemies inside you.
Nothing is real.
You're only alive.
You perceive whatever reality surrounds you and everything in it.
Alter your perceptions.
Stop feeling and create.
Play the game.
Play to win.
Destroy the other team.
Throw stones to the walls that build themselves against you.
Leaning leads to only the achievement of failure.
Skin your terrors to the bone.
Make no excuses.
Carpal tunnel, loneliness, hangovers, sore knees. They're all in your head.
Fight to the death.
Yours and theirs.