One of the fucking nights of my life.
I walked from my house to Doyle's house in Kenmore to meet up with Mike, then walk from there to the Funeral Home in Riverside, and we're mad early. First people there. Sold me a pack of seneca silvers, only they're shitty as fuck and you have to bite off half the filter for full flavor. I smoked that entire pack that night, sans bumming a few out.
Saw a ton of people, CUP SPOTTING. I fucking danced like no tomorrow, pitted and whadda fuck ever, I was drenched in my sweat and everyone else's, and beer fountains. Incredible Mischief brew show. Fucking incredible.
Then we went to some party at a girl's house whose name I don't even fucking remember on N French. Got mad drunk, Spidy mom, and then drove back to Kenmore at like 4 am. Met Jamie. She puked. Mike's got a thing for her.
Then Mike and I had a drunken walk back to Lincoln where we chilled in Tom's backyard as I remade him his hemp necklace and we talked a fucking lot.
I told him that amanda didn't leave the room that night. Real heart to heart. Real friends, fucking sleepover.

1. I was on my roof. The thin strip running in between the stories, with my window still accessible. I'd been moving the idea in my mind around like rolled bread, and now the significance of the saying was clear. Mashing bread was a mark of subdued insanity. And yet the ground was a mistakable pit of shadow and shine in the dew grass and I could jump. There is a dark void nipping at my ass, in my room. If I turn on the lamp, or the ceiling light, it will be a yellow bulb, emitting yellow light, and it will be the end of artificiality.

I think I'm having the conversation with myself this time, about god and alchemy. Soft gold was sure as hell no symbol of love, and I finally jumped, but all I remember was the string fixated from my head to knees was quivering back against the force of the faith almighty and kicking slates or two off my roof and a twang of gutter metal.

I can't find my eyeglasses in the wet lawn. But I'm out, I'm gone, and when I opened my strained eyes up at the suburban curbside tree, the ringing became apparent in my head. It's no wind, it's, fuck- my wrist flopping with no rotation, in an excruciating keel... (and the ring of blood rivers rushing into tight veins is making me hurt.) I stood up. I don't remember how with a sprained wrist and pain intolerable to the point that it's hot versus cold water indistinguishable.

It's been a half hour walk so far and you have texted once to ask where the hell I am.

It's been a forty five minute walk and you have called once to ask where the hell I am.

It's been over an hour and you are frustrated and I am here (eccomii!) and I am frightened and I am-

fucking you, or vice versa.

Your touch is difficult this time, much more angry than the first stupid time in a messy closet floor. There's nothing to be afraid of, you are a satan and I am a god foiling against man and I love... you. And this has always been just between us. But tonight I wish to die. I left my room, I left my house, I left my roof and window open, and my parents are asleep and there are village police bored and waiting to catch a minor out after curfew. I am sixteen years young and too broken to be fucked without supervision by someone three years older than me.

"You should get going soon."

"Can I tell you something?"

You look at me without an expectation for the only time I can remember.

"I want to kill myself."

It took repeating the statement a few times and interjections and force for you to, "What people don't know is the state you reach just before you could physically die, you regret everything. And it's the worst, most excruciating feeling that towers under the hell you dwell now."

You parted with me far enough at an intersection and it's three thirty a.m.. If you kissed me or hugged me or spat in my face it doesn't matter anymore because my memory tampered when I was driven insane.

You will be the man who has tobacco packed in paper, rolling around down and out your lungs, with the cosmos constantly in need of refill in your chest to feel alive. I need one of my cigarettes to inhale and exhale like a machine on my walk home until I can walk back into the void like it's full (and it's five a.m. and I am asleep for an hour on a Wednesday morning, and my mother has vertigo and I am ready-)

I criticize you in my mind when my choices entitled you to make yours. (- to walk to my school today.)

2. "What if we were like modern socialites in a new gallery? One of us with a sleek black dress on and a wrist flicked backwards as you frequent the cancer to your lips. And what if you said-"

"I like unforgiving art and unrealistic reality? That's all those dark semi-profound broads every actually say. Is this about you feeling like you're the subject of some great artist's interpretation? Because you're not Rachel, I'm just some high schooler screwing around with a spectrum of graphite and you are just-"

"Rose from the Titanic."

B lead for a quick signature. I'm done with this bullshit. I'm no Jack and she's no Rose and we'll never be together. She's curling her movements in a different way now,  like a snake with legs and she's rustling her hair down and waiting for the weight of her face to sink down to the edge of her eyelids. She rotates the skin up slowly so she's gazing right at me. What a silly attempt at seduction. But I fucked her anyway.

She's awake as the jay and I know she's just happy to be there in my arms, resting her chin against my breast. But she disguises her giggles poorly with sleep to say, "what are we doing? What mess have we created?" Happier than she's ever been in her entire life, only lacking my love.

I find that quicker than a flash, noi cambiamo! And to embrace that without relish is the worst feeling in the world.

I remember sitting at a small wooden desk, four paired up at a time in elementary school. And the teacher stood at the front of the room and told you that a proper story abides by the rules- beginning, middle, conflict, resolution, end. If I had known the word bullshit back then, I think I would've had duck tape plastered over my mouth and been sent to a disciplinary official.

Maybe I would've still been the meek child beaten into a curious submission, and wouldn't have said bullshit because it was a curse word. But I knew that life isn't that simple. Children are ripe, and not as stupid as the grown populous teaches us to be. I could have been brilliant, and I taught myself the majority of what I know- from observation. Beaten into submission, to follow rules, stand in line, be orderly, think and express within the acceptable confines of society... I knew that this story had already happened. The end is first, and the entire tale unfolds before your eyes. The resolution's already happened. So this is my story, a few times removed and relayed.

Don't end, begin

"One night, man awoke and saw himself." -Zapffe
I've been through more than a few abandoned moleskins that I'm ready for something less committing. When I check facebook daily and have the desire to disable the account and suspend my relationship with the internet fairyland, I figure it's safe enough to put a thought here and there on fucking blogspot. No one checks this shit anyway, the personal blog fad has passed and become tumblr (everything's a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy &etc>> REBLOG) Screw that.
I found an interesting concept today, some newly coined DIY term- Biopunk. There's becoming a whole world of people fending for their lives more and more, and making medical laboratories in their kitchens, testing for pregnancy with homemade equipment. Homegrown botany, medical style. I'm really digging Barnes and Nobles nowadays, and with a new library card, I'm even less worried.
I really think I put my life on hold this summer. But the world just sort of kept going, and now it's two weeks until I'm officially smack in senior year at Park and I'm petrified. I have to go back there to those people who I have nothing less to impress with, all my tools are gone and only my raw antics are there to work with. I am looking forward to AP Calculus, some Statistics self-catered projects, Physics with Herman, and even thesis. I just am ready to learn again. With mentors this time. I've learned so much this summer but there's nothing like the pleasure of a good teacher to learn with. I guess I really just talk a whole lot of bullshit out of my mouth nowadays, but no one else seems to legitimately think so. At least those whose opinions matter... I want to get my life back together. There's nothing like a drunken Keybank parking garage roof to empty Mohawk place venue conversation on the value of art at it's core essentials till 5 am, only to bike back to Kenmore tired as all hell. Those are adventures, those are authentic experiences. But you loose yourself at sixteen when that's every day. Not that it really ever has been. I'm just reaching that point. The time of my fucking sixteen year old life. I wrote a list of things I have to get done. I think I took on the sailor's tongue as a   mechanism to combat my daily frustrations. Maybe I've found my place as some kid of the black hole, but the void accounts for the absence of the void.
I'm done being profound pointlessly. When every word is meant to carry with me to the next day and on and after that. You leave the beautiful woman at the river, because the point was to preserve the purity in that passing, and the next day, she might not be a beautiful woman. And her dress could get wet, because that woman could've gotten across the river without you.
Does a dog have Buddha nature? "Mu." Because a dog doesn't know that it exists.
List of shit I have to accomplish: artwork for O'Malley, read Zakaria's Post American World, read and write on Atwood's the Penelopiad, study the Odyssey, write Common app essays, get basic college premise information done, prepare some extent of my thesis shit, get into driver's ed program, get working papers, clean room, get school supplies together, pierce septum, develop roll of film, make some cash, fucking etc.