Mid-January bleakness. Skies are a heavy gray that fold down on the mind. I am a cyclist. Not pedaling, rather pushing through a shade I don't understand. Can't comprehend. Don't Care.

That is a lie. I care. Sometimes at least.

My state is not that disheveled, rather I am just frustrated. I want so badly not to work. Just to quit my job and live. Write whenever I want to. There are so many things that I have been wanting to write. When I walk down the street I see scenes, clips of of the day, that are phrases; sections of stories. Ideas that I have to neglect in order to pay the bills and get my assignments done. When I graduate maybe I will just escape, move away, find a radio station out west to DJ at, a mindless waitress job, an apartment with the bare bones, and write--- just write.

Omaha perhaps.

I've been digging Centipede E'est and their song "Mirrors" lately. It is a solid, well written, modern psychedelic-rock track that taps into the reservoirs of energy. I believe it to be about rear-view mirrors and driving on the highway, but (in honor of my 8:30AM poetry class) "the message the piece is trying to deliver is deeper than that." It is trying to convey the idea that even if you check both side mirrors and use a blinker before switching lanes life can still bite you in the ass; luckily I inherited my mom's ass.

Clink.