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little left to live but a valley boy wept and slept in violet velvets snuck in citrus fruit flesh flavors of a popular record to flush out the year's end in a city vinyl slush, the scorsese cinematic way an ecstasy pill would handsomely crush my berry brain matter pray as prey (虐待!) and january on the west coast always hurts and always will as the ever after of everything, a seasonal selling of blood for all the drugs now gone, and i feel like crying (we are on the ground beneath ya).

and there goes hoodie hidden me high on somas and floral bouquets of benzos on the golden gate coast where i used to wish for all the heroism in the world to leap as a suicidal fairytale prince from my favorite storybook, and love goes on as my soul sprays its veins within a paler body than you've probably ever fucked. even still, depression + agoraphobia weaves my reputation as a rare face to be found with firefly needles to the city pop vinyls left to loop as my sing street soundtrack, and my dreams are abandoned to meander to ruin like the needles to my body sewn once upon a time by prescription prozac. anti-depressants killed someone i loved and never again forever for any of it. that's life. drugs, therapists, sunglasses at shows, depression, and barely living the way lars von trier put it: "basically, I'm afraid of everything in life, except filmmaking." he misses meetings, can't work, and admits to basically being worthless while depression takes him as every lover and love knows and knew me. also a forever ever drug addict as they say we are once we're letting our loves shoot dope in our veins. yet his art survives. he survives. he's etched.

put in real wor(l)ds: i'll barely ever show up to whatever to be filmed but you can count on me to spill whatever on my lonely (brand-new) laptop brought elsewhere and ruin. a $60+ UPS shipment back to asus later (yesterday when i'm legit sick) and i'm here again on sua's silly stickered (slow) storybook for however many days watching ghibli flicks and 90's TV anime. that's what i get for making my way to so and so's kinda impressive place in the city to show off rewrites and get drunk on whatever while editing something more worthwhile than what my own words. no matter what they say. i'm out-of-commission, dopesick kinda moment, and yet i'm back to work on a treatment idea i sketched out in six sentences over a year and a half ago when i purposely relapsed to know a feeling closer to megan again. i dreamed a dream better than any other in so long and have so much more than before. so many sugared sticky ideas. it's something. nothing. everything. it's up to me and that's a freedom i need now. only i can truly save myself from myself for myself.

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