True Affection Floats Like A Porch

True affection sinks like a stone. There's a disconnect from the past. The events previously occurred bear no present concerted thought. And the mind... begins... to wander. Smoke billows like silk ribbons from the remnants of a parting gift rolled by a mysterious maiden of the now so unfamiliar yesterhours. Yesterhours? Yes... Yesterhours. There's passing recollection of her floating on those wisps of fairy white, feather dust light silt hanging thick in the room. Mr. Steez pours over her reflections as they sit like smog at his omniscient eye level. The wrinkles on his face furrow further as the music blarring in his ears brings memories of another.

And so it seemss, only in dreams

They're slow-dancing, cheek-to-cheek down Rivers Cuomo's dreary little waterslide. And the splashes of drums. And the explosions of yearning from the six-strings. And the come down. And the bass. And the come up. And the come up! And the music tears by, and the headfirst waterfall approaches, and they're left standing awashed in the nostalgia. The moment's passed as the song fades. Hands fall to their respective sides and he turns away.

Seasons came, and changed the timee

He would always laugh and say, remember when we used to playy

Bang, bang... and the air's cleared.

Mr. Steez's eyes dart. Here and there, mournfully looking for a new focus as the previous one has curiously elluded pin-pointing.

They dart past whores in his head, dart they past whores in his bed. They haven't been trying to meet them, said the man to the lady.

They find solace and the ears perk at New York, courtesy of Cat Power.

Strangely inspiring. Time to make moves. ;)

New York You're Safer, and You're Wasting My Time

Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe the boundaries of real life are closing in, understandably so. But the sense that I'll find satisfaction somewhere within the demographic constraints of success, through socially acceptable means of achievement is sufficiently lacking. That financial scale of accomplishment holds a low priority in he immediate course of prevailing events, selfishly so perhaps. One can't live this way forever and I understand that in the sense of maintaining a certain lifestyle. But towards what ends would I or SHOULD I even be pursuing?


If it's simply a matter of providing for myself, does my destiny necessarily lie in a cubicle, shirt pressed, tie neat and centered, slaving away over numbers and reports day after day, watching the sun skate across the sky through double-paned glass? Safe, but since when has that safety become a handicap on the life you want to live.


Is that not time wasted?

Somebody's Calling Me

This Is Happening. This is auditory euphoria. Bass drumming a beat. cowbell. beat. Heart patters with a reverberating snap. Familiar keyboard and a classic James Murphy slide into place and the story begins. The undulating meter of these collection of bards is entrancing, and only enhanced by the seemingly LSD-inspired synthesized accompaniment that rolls through in varying feelings of the words joy and, um... melt?

Or so these mischievous spliffs would have you believe.

Thank you LCD Soundsystem.

The Last Mule Home

It's the summit. We've reached the summit and it's all downhill from here. There's a certain anxiety as one tries to keep feet and eyes rooted in the steps taken on this precarious journey. The winds of change blow hard on adventures like these, and harder still at the summit. It's all we can do to just hold on. And climb. And climb. Blindly into the new, disparaged atmosphere in which we find ourselves now.

It's like changing the background in the middle of the closing act. For all intensive purposes the play's the same and the audience is perhaps a bit thrown off, questioning such a discreet decision. But they're not the ones climbing. It's those players up on the stage that bear the brunt of the impact. Something laughably absurd, brought up as an afterthought at the end of rehearsal. A whisper, a giggle. But soon whispers take a stand and raise their voice, and giggles gain fervor. And by the time the show hits the stage, [background switch in the middle of Act III] is in the script, and, for lack of an unequivocal concern or opinion, those players on stage hold their duty to the audience and soldier on, trying not to mis-step at the moment of truth. Easier said than done. And the reviews are out.

It's a hit, and as we coast down from the summit, there's a sigh of relief from the crew and cast. Albeit, some sighs are heavier than others. And some sighs are not sighs at all, but instead shouts and bouts of laughter from the mouths of those who got the changed-background ball rolling, however inadvertent it may have been. Those of the whisper, of the giggle that are driving the pack mules home as we descend to the safety below the summit storms.

Whispers from the Closet

No volume control can drown out what has been overheard through the closet doors tonight. The memoirs of the 4 walls of the master bedroom closet will be the most anticipated release of the century as the 440 Western legacy comes to a close...

"...and then I pleasure you with my hands


... I'm embarrassed because I think they heard me"

"now that you mention it, i would love to stick it in your butt"

Foyfriends and the Things They Says

Question: Can I be a professional foyfriend?

Of course one begs the related question: what the baker's fuck is a foyfriend? Well my callous unknowing public, a foyfriend, in it's Latin base form quite literally means "to laugh," but "secretly". They're fake boyfriends. And 440 Western seems to have their scent, alluring them with side-cast glances and whimsical follies. Their's is a forlorn attraction, stirring up heart-felt connotations that are, despite the aforementioned, worthy of afterthought and discussion. My feelings on the matter? Think Paul Rudd (circa Knocked Up and Role Models) reading a short romance novella. Our feelings would be one in the same.

"Even your smile glows at night."

40 Day Dream

I'm thinking about life, or more specifically how we approach it individually. This secular it pertaining to my current state of fortunes, however curious it may be. To look at it explicitly, the structure's there and easy to follow. Spring is finally starting to show its colors through the haze and occasional showers. Months until graduation turn to weeks. Days stretch on into the hours previously reserved for dusk and twilight. As magic hour follows the sun later and later, the reality of this chapter coming to a close looms surprisingly distant and unfocused on the mind's horizon.


He's not ready to wake up. Shhh.

Everywhere Feels Like Home

The man sitting across from me curiously chews his salad in step with the LCD Soundsystem song overwhelming my auditory receptors as some people would put it, ginger biology prodigy not withstanding. It's a colorful salad. Does that make it exciting? No. A half-assed lackluster amalgamation of unfresh dining hall options. Does this make him boring? It's certainly not out of the question. He was alone when I happened across his tiny bubble of solidarity in the cozy chairs. And pow pow pow-pow-pow (you know how it goes), he's gone, having left with all the haste and cunning of a woe-be-gone vampire filled to the brim with monotonous teen angst. He even left his salad. How strange. And yet intriguing... They should give him a vampire mini-series on the HBO.  Or maybe Showtime.  Showtime could make it work I bet.