aboutface/ scriptures.

| Here comes the story of a starving writer.
He has left the exterior world through sheets of blanket.
Appeared again to check on the time.
He has now left.
He lives in between real time and melancholy. Both paralleled due to twisted logic. He sees more than he touches. Remembered more than what actually happened. He wastes time to use up the time most people waste. The night.
But I wouldn’t say he romantises a lot. That would hurt his ego.
It started with the night. It ended with the night. Started again in the morning but wished it stayed night forever. ‘It’ referred to here is a whole conceptualised unrealised acts of adulterated adolescence. Tell it to them. Your story is only yours to tell.
There are no voices in his head, only self assured retellings of presumed fortune. He says it would be too cliché to have voices. The only real voice is unheard. That tool of a mouth only spits out blasphemy after blasphemy of philosophical jargon bullshit much like the ramblings of your favourite post-modern renaissance man. He is nonsense. “I would much prefer that direct self quoting written word thing we do. Yes, written word.” He would say with his chin pressing into his breasts while still maintaining eye contact.

Once again I wouldn’t say he’s much of a hypocrite. That would hurt his ego.
So much for the life of a starving writer.

Funny how I tend to write something around a single sentence...the one about wasting time...=/
Because I feel like I’m wasting time sitting around in this apartment making not much as a noise while staring at the not so excited fan losing its speed.gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Tell me la tell me how am i supposed to finish a research draft, study for a test and get ready for a presentation in a night?? Eff you Taylors.