Message from the dirt floor. Message from the E crazed and the fucked face.

It has been a while, my friends.

How is everyone?




So, haven't been home in a while. I called Jon yesterday and he was rude. I had a cream puff today and I had lemon sorbet today and I had a drunk boy today.

Alright.
I feel so shitfaced and fucked, but who's keeping track?
I miss Mary, and I want to see Lily. And I want to go to San Francisco so that I can see Domo.
I need to start finding some girlfriends that I can actually hang out with often. Damn. All this testosterone is really getting to me.





Love. Me.



The thing is, he encounters. He ENCOUNTERS. At times only witnessing, but always moving through events that can not be, as they are with others, separated from his life so that he is constantly carrying several lives with him at once that can only be perceived as a collection of partial narratives too bright and complex to be absorbed and understood in one lifetime--except that he has, is, carries, only exactly one life at all times.
It's too much. Really. Sometimes it's too much.

He's leaving me to falter before a spectacle whose mystery and unbelievable beauty is distanced, fading precisely because I keep backing away from it, thinking with every step that it might pull me back with a question in his eyes: Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?
But I falter, and he is ever the spectacle.