i must appear to be a maniac sometimes.
hmmm... going out of town for the weekend. that should be a good thing.
i am taking pictures of a wedding on saturday, which has me nervous. the groom is a fellow student at school. he assured me it's a low key thing, but you know, sometimes you feel like you don't know shit.
the world's getting smaller, and my past comes back to haunt me sometimes. often, that past is just the night before.
and, because it makes me smile:
yep.
i woke up at 2:30 today, and it's 4:30 now, and it seems like it's about 11.
i met a girl at the aforementiond wedding.
the maid of honor.
she's pretty cool. likes photography, music and stuff.
i'm seemingly not made for relationships. i just like my time too much i guess.
perhaps i should just quit smoking so much weed, but i kinda like it. she's my main thang, you know?
i've got 150 discs on shuffle right now. pretty sweet, almost too much variety. my musical tastes have really varied throughout the years. that's okay though, lots of good stuff out there.
if you dig graffiti or street art or whatever you'd like to call that free social dialogue you should check out:
the wooster collective
also, i just thought this was cool:
clock
man, i hope those pictures turn out or some people are going to hate me.
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
-my homie D.T.
hmmm... going out of town for the weekend. that should be a good thing.
i am taking pictures of a wedding on saturday, which has me nervous. the groom is a fellow student at school. he assured me it's a low key thing, but you know, sometimes you feel like you don't know shit.
the world's getting smaller, and my past comes back to haunt me sometimes. often, that past is just the night before.
and, because it makes me smile:
yep.
i woke up at 2:30 today, and it's 4:30 now, and it seems like it's about 11.
i met a girl at the aforementiond wedding.
the maid of honor.
she's pretty cool. likes photography, music and stuff.
i'm seemingly not made for relationships. i just like my time too much i guess.
perhaps i should just quit smoking so much weed, but i kinda like it. she's my main thang, you know?
i've got 150 discs on shuffle right now. pretty sweet, almost too much variety. my musical tastes have really varied throughout the years. that's okay though, lots of good stuff out there.
if you dig graffiti or street art or whatever you'd like to call that free social dialogue you should check out:
the wooster collective
also, i just thought this was cool:
clock
man, i hope those pictures turn out or some people are going to hate me.
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
-my homie D.T.
decedent:
appear?
thelefthand:
maniac or not, the milk carton is genius....