27.Feb.2003

six feet under

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time for a seven-thirty reality check

I told my girlfriends this diary was akin to J.G. Ballard and a 17-year-old angst-strumpet copulating roughly beneath the metaphor tree.

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I want my cell-phone to holler, and I want you to be buried somewhere on the otherside of the fugue-tone. Deliver me aural sex. Stimulate me, but don't deaden the sex-nerves.

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Nicotine metalizes my teeth. This is a bad, train-wrecked cigar dream.

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Someone ridiculously and gloriously close to me once said, "Never be afraid to ask for what you want." I want the universal want. I want to be licked, crushed, burdened, abjured, worshipped, appreciated and consumed.

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A friend of mine proclaimed tonight, while comparing our communication to consuming vast quantities of alcohol, "On the upside, I could drink you in for hours and still see straight."

I was immediately reduced to, "I love that." There were no witty retorts. I simply love that. I hold no aversions, though, to the two of us seated across one another at a Philippine mahogany table, combining cerebrum-stories over hard shots of vodka, and serving musical fetishes on intoxicated platters to the point we go blind.

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My love for Massive Attack is matched perfectly to my love for Underworld, however meshing the two won't suffice. "Rising Sun (Underworld Remix)" = "Why are you no longer thinking clearly?"

The epitome of no longer harboring an emotional attachment to someone is when you can subject yourself to a song that almost always invoked memories of them without delivering the hallowed but faded images. I love that.

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The Revolution Intermission prevails.

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I love it when you become insane; it is the pinnacle of your accessibility.

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You've reached the end of your line. The Higher Power grants you one final song to hear before you transcend the human realm. What is that song? Tell me.

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time & machine