In small squares of sticky paper, we write notes to ourselves, it's a private conversation deemed irrelevant with time and isn't that our existence?
This is what adult life is, right? A pigeonhole existence, and nomadic presence.
My old escapes are like secret passageways in and out of my brain.
There is nothing more miserable than seeing endless darkness even when there is light.
Finding inspiration is a tough thing to do.
Now that I have seen rock bottom, I am not afraid of it any more.
High walls are not meant to give the people living within them any comfort.
I have painted these streets and these memories are mine to keep.
I told myself though that it was only seven weeks, how could it mean anything?
I'll tell you why this post is important, it's because the doorbell makes me nervous.