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[November the 20th] |
i would like to rescind all my secrets and be invisible to you--for as long as it takes me to gather myself. just as long as it takes me to put it all in place and make art with life. you know, i truly believe that's what it comes down to: painted pottery days. large canvas spaces of earthy colors, copper tones, and history, so much history, a signifier of acculturation and ornamentation. i'm okay with that though, on some level, about being reduced to your pride. it's not petty. it fulfills a need. the trusting need to be wanted that projects itself in all of life's neurosis. "not bullshit-able like english and poli sci," he says. good writing cannot be bullshitted. words have to have form and convention and at best you can mimic your way into acknowledgment but it's never good the way goodness is timeless and wreaks of absolution. it's alright though; the insufficiency you impose on me has a haunting habit of lingering, force-fed by insecurity. meh. it's 7 in the morning and i don't like black coffee or cigarettes that much, so i guess it makes no sense to ramble. there's something to be said about composure. something.
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