blessed-boy

I would kill to ride the subway. Everything else makes me sick. The highways, the streets, the interstate, they’re  all built with curves and turns, impossibly narrow lanes in architecturally congested areas and practically wide open fields outside of the city, always popping up with gravity defying hills. They’re like vines twisting and spiraling - twining their way around complexes and implied factories under smoke stacks.  They pile on different layers every year, different levels, and when you look down it’s like seeing an infinite web of concrete, with tiny cars and tiny people trying to get out. I did once, you know. Rid

     Insanity reaches the mind like the noose wraps around the neck, you know. At least, that’s how I felt. Feel. I don’t really know anymore. I couldn’t tell you which way is up or down now, but I can tell you that I have some damn good reasons for that.     I was 19, but don’t lump me in with all of you youthful bastards, you partiers – because I had nothing to show save a receipt from my college on the cost of my tuition.     I went to school to be writer.  I went to school to be an English major. I went to school to stop waiting. Waiting to be a writer; waiting to be a person. A real person.  A real, live pe