I want to be Them, but I'm not Them. It takes too much effort to be somebody.

They keep telling me that I was at the party and that He was there and we were talking and the aneurysm burst and He fell to the floor and I just stood there. I don't remember.

There aren't a lot of films dedicated to the way trees sway when you look at them from a moving car, sprawled on the back seat. Probably because most filmmakers aren't 5-year-old kids. Maybe we need more of those.

I'm not very familiar with the concept of Elegy, but that's probably what it is.

Neurochocolate deliciousness
Everything's an electrical impulse. Car. Sweet. Superheroes. Dirty. Salvation. Phone numbers. That old coffee shop she used to like and they teared down shortly after she left me (I secretly think of the coffee shop as a part of her). They're all notions in our brains. Electrical impulses. Even this little cliché of vague knowledge of physiology posing as metaphysics.

And one day, they're there no more. How dare we think of ourselves as anything higher in the scale of existence than a telephone pole?
I keep thinking we should move out of my parent's basement sometime soon. Somewhere close to the beach, if possible. Where the salty air and savory silence could help us pretend we're still struggling novelists and not simply a mass of gelatinous desire for fame.

It's hard, pretending to be you. I'll be back for more, though.Static noise is overused. I'm kind of over it now. It's just a phase.