Thanks for Playing

Sometimes I read what I write and I know it won’t make any fucking sense to anyone but me. I drink espresso but I actually really hate it. I used to care about what coffee tasted like. But that was a waste of time. Something completely bitter. That’s what we need. And I only enjoy drinking out of flimsy looking paper cups. Because it all tastes the same in the back of the mouth. It’s all the same when we have 3. It’s all the same in the red light morning.

All I remember about Paris are the side streets, the Taschen bookstore, the graffitied train tracks. The quiet unimportant things. That’s my problem – I am always taken by the unimportant things. And those things don’t mean much to anyone but me. And I trip myself up trying to explain it. So I don’t bother trying anymore.

I’ve been in this city for 8 months now and it still won’t give me a skyline. It still can't compare to that city I've never been to. I genuinely believed that I wouldn’t be here. But then again, I genuinely believe a lot of things which I shouldn’t believe in.

It’s so fucking ridiculous. I’m so fucking ridiculous.

There’s a very strange feeling inside of me and I don’t know what exactly to do about it…because I don’t even know what it is. What do I do? Just keep writing…that’s all I’m going to do. Eventually, I’m going to write it all out.

Let’s wipe it all clean. Let’s wipe it all white. And then let’s start again.

And when you start to get tired, Let it Be.

(Downtown, Los Angeles)