My wrist is sprained (it feels that way) and I don't know why. Trying to write tonight. It's so hard! Who wants to make sense any more. Do that seduction thing. You know? We know how it goes. I want to talk about the time when I was so unbelievably bored I felt really smothered by the possibility of literally anything (literally everything) and it was like a head-rush. Asphyxiation. I mean, it's hot-- that sober appraisal of the landscape around you. High noon, you know? So trying to write, distracting myself. A belly full of leaves and I have the sudden an intense urge to play the cello at 11pm to learn the song by that pop star everyone hates (it's so offensive and dirty bad trash). These kids, y'know, they sing Top 40 and it's camp or it's a play in alienation or it's a display of earnestness but not yknow for me. I'm too uncute too old to be cute, I don't want to make people laugh or think I want to clock it. I suppose I consider myself, really, a journalist. A reporter. Wrist hurts okay but not so bad to keep me from playing and I can still tune it pretty much by ear.

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