I've been inside my home for 4 days.  I haven't moved.  I've turned off my phone.  I've kept chat clients closed.  I haven't responded to emails.  I can't seem to keep a blog chronicaling my life updated.   Instead of writing, I talk to myself.  The most productive thing I've done so far is some laundry.  The same mix has been playing for over a week.  I've registered for a grand total of zero classes for Spring semester.  I haven't opened an LA Weekly in some time.   I argue with people over the events surrounding Elliott's death, much due to the fact that I don't want to let go.  My fingernails are a vibrant red, but the personality just doesn't match.  I'm lonely, but how does someone who sits inside meet anyone? 

It seems that I've grown more attached to musical figures that the people in my physical life.  Everything is fine and dandy in my non-physical life.  Ryan Adams is crooning over a lost love, yet again.  Elliott's still breathing and has stepped away from kitchen knives to continue writing about drugs.  I can sit down to listen without hesitation or concern.   In the physical life, I sit and listen because I don't want to do anything else.  I don't want to sleep; I don't want to stay awake.  I don't want to move; I don't want to stay still. 

I'd like to take the easy way out, I suppose.


10:00:33 PM  #  Speak to Me []