There’s all but everything and a


cut-out pair-of-peaches

on the floor.

I only know that because

I  see through my hands.


Without some fuzzy texture and effective allele they’d (the peaches, maybe my hands) be nothing but the

fiber colored 

time piece sprouting around my wrist:

with a distorted face and two hands wholly abstracted from my own it somehow, and without my consent, begins to dominate

all  *measurable* reality.


Anna ate shrooms tonight and I wasn’t around to be in-it with her.


I can’t

The world is

          “the world IS

           everything always ever anything”


Everything has so much

I can’t even

What are you doing?

             ”At work”

"oh god

I forgot other worlds exist



            “An ocean away. Millions of oceans away.                                                          With you always.”



Alden, don’t be sad

It’s so great


When will you be out?”


               ”Like 11 here”

"Idk what time is"




                uh you’re time 5am

               haha you are time and you are 5am” 


               ”you are the time thing”


that’s it, that’s all

I love you”

mindless of Anna or the peaches, the ocean and time got together over some darker beers and fucking laughed  

1 note
30 notes
The Only Poem Left

I was only your muscle memory.

4 notes

Basement // Covet

1,018 notes


"Falling in Love Again" Joyce Manor

Hope you don’t think I don’t care
Cause I do, I just don’t know if I should feel this bad about you

(Source: toeatmyself)

15,941 notes

"A tennis ball is the ultimate body. Perfectly round. Even distribution of mass. But empty inside, utterly, a vacuum. Susceptible to whim, spin, to force - used well or poorly. It will reflect your own character. Character itself. Pure potential. Have a look at a ball. Get a ball from the cheap green plastic laundry basket of old used balls I keep there by the propane torches and yes to practice occasional serve, Jimbo. Attaboy. Now look at the ball. Heft it. Feel the weight. Here, I’ll… tear the ball… open. Whew. See? Nothing in there but evacuated air that smells like a kind of rubber hell. Empty. Pure potential. Notice I tore it open along the seam. It’s a body. You’ll learn to treat it with consideration, son, some might say a kind of love, and it will open for you, do your bidding, be at your beck and soft lover’s call… Imagine what it feels like to be this ball, Jim. Total physicality. No revving head. Complete presence. Absolute potential, sitting there potentially absolute in your big pale slender girlish hand so young its thumb’s unwrinkled at the joint."

David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

2 notes