i am head over heels for the acoustic version of almost crimes, by broken social scene.
i cannot get over it
gogol bordello was so illuminating
and i have the battle wounds to prove it
"i waited. i waited. it's late now. she's waiting at home."
i still am searching for words. i think i know what this is going to take. not even an abrupt tragedy can inspire. i am reaching for them. but they are no where near my fingertips. because i find myself in limbo. maybe, yes, maybe that is why. it isn't all quite real enough, not sound, never final. and im lost, and my words are gone. i am in a rut. and there is nothing more to it. i do not like to see these words penetrate the waves. i'll let them float out. just a little longer. better out than in. these cases show. all the while wishing to erase, backtrack, backspace, delete, delete, delete. so unable to wrap around these days. to prose them in sequence, in charm.
"we've got love and hate. it's the only way."
damn. im desperate enough to write each happening. just spell it out to you. maybe it's time for a story. maybe i need better words to read. and god i am reading. but it's so out of reach.
"i think it's almost crimes. i think it's time."