I’m reading House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski. Suggested by a friend. It’s kind of fucked up. I like it, like demonic imagery, and dreams where I am falling. I can’t explain myself, so I will not pretend.
If our conversations aren’t inspired, I’ll kill them quickly. I am not some sort of liar. I’ll just mumble that I’m tired and tired of being alone.
But that shit’s all my fault. I’ve always been reclusive. The moment something good comes up, I push it straight away.
Taabish, I suck. Taabish, I’m sorry. I hope that Boston isn’t awful, and that Canada’s the same.
And sometimes I feel like I’m on fire. Tobias Funke, why am I not underwater? And I’m always cranky when I’m tired and I’m tired of being alone and I’m reaching for the phone. Thank god you aren’t alone.