I've been listening to the Cults a lot lately, which is to say now that I'm comfortably numb. Yet my hand seems constantly at my head, pulling hairs out by the strand. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I don't know. I've dropped the reigns somewhere. The horses are running free and careless now and there's no control, but the way's still pretty smooth honestly, the lands flat and there aren't many rocks or trees or anything really. A great flat patchwork quilt of nothing is what I find myself flying over at a strong gallop. I wish, I wish, I wish for a cliff.
No you don't. Don't be stupid. All right, but I wouldn't mind one though, I'm ready. Life's easier to understand as a Western.
You just think you're ready because you're lazy. You're not ready get, not really. You have too much to do still. You've got classes, and travels and thing to write still. The reigns aren't gone, they're just dangling out of arm's length. Reach a little. Try.
Get a job, do your homework. Write, write, write. And stop pulling your fucking hair out, idiot.
