Just feel like it – have that need, though have no idea what will be said. These are my moments of solitude, where I spit out whatever comes to mind.

This can be dangerous in it’s honesty, at times.

It’s still light outside. I try to make a home of my van, the way it was when I was travelling, but it’s difficult – I know where I am now, I have been here far too long.

Cole’s visit was far more than necessary for me – a grounding, someone that I know I can believe in. She let my mind rest, find the laughter and peace and let go of the things that plague my mind. I try to make this van a home, a sanctuary where I can write and escape. It’s difficult these days – even more so when the sun still casts it’s shadows.

Last night was wonderful – I was finally able to cook for the Forest – mussels in a delicious sauce, and it was very well recieved. The perfect people there – unrestrained laughter, wit – we played, we played. We were exhausted in the joy while sitting near the fire.

Scattered.

I think everyday of the ideal Blue, yet cannot say anything. I will not break the silence that has been created. I give it my respect, my heart and hatred, and a thousand words cross my mind, searching for peace – but all I have is Good Bye. All I have is nothing. All I have is to abandon back. I try to cut them all out with my knives. All I get is strange blood and sorrow.

I think I need to get mushrooms or acid – or any psychotropic I can get my hands on. It’s time to trip hard, alone.

One month until Austin – all of Texas – is only a tragically beautiful memory.

I don’t know if I will be able to wait that long.

She knew. She knew My Bean. As I tried to wipe away the tears she looked at me. She knew. She knew My Bean. She understood. In the whole damn world, EVER.

no more poetry.
just silly words.

I realize that I’m banging my head against the support beam in my van.
I realize that it helps nothing, and I stop – and drink more wine. The sun has passed the horizon, the night comes. I’ll roll another cigarette. I wish I could write as I used to. I wish I knew poetry again. So much easier to say things so vaguely and beautifully that way, left to the interpretation of the reader – but perhaps I am done with its game. Perhaps there is nothing but what I need to say. The poetry came and remains written in india ink where no one will read it until my death, except for a chosen few.

I believe that is best.

and I’m done – for now…

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