there is a bone-crushing loneliness that comes with drinking a twelve-pack and doing resin hits in the early morning that can't quite be explained. the last matchstick burns itself out. sobriety surrounds and then swallows you whole.

i'm still me. i'm still me. it's still me.
it's still me.

it's still me.

between a place and a rock

its autumn and i just wanted to say that i dont care. not that its autumn, but about you. selfish, shallow, and childish. i dont know how i couldnt see that none of it really mattered. at least, to one of us, that is.


anywho, heres a picture.

i don't know