scorp

journalistic creative piece on dylan

My window is stupidly narrow. Whenever I smoked and couldn’t muster the twenty seconds it takes to clear my ashtray, the wind would spurt through; like an arrow through the arrowslit...

Birthday cakes and treasure hunts. Damp towels and bickering in a squeaky car. White wine and cigarettes.

The better I get, the more I yearn for what I cannot create.

I thought love was all in the shoulders. Hunched, preparing for the moment you will lunge at my neck. [...] Love and fear, as far as I knew, were the same scars.

If all the unfathomable chances and stars didn’t drift into a straight line, like an airplane runway for me to take off into their heart.

writing is unseeing.

sorry.......................

we have the capacity to fathom.

sometimes i wonder if there’s a point to even writing this

Life is a mess of stars. And I am the whole sky around me.