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Asian country or city, place, called Mulay. Tourist bar on the pier filled with rich white people or succesful Mulay criminals. Whole place is built on water, like a pier city. Wooden floors and badly made streets. Giant wood pillars scatter the city in a random fashion that are made to hold parts of the pier up. Like trees they appear in a sort of natural and uncomformed way, with the city having to be built around them. The houses are shack like and stack in towers. Bridges are built through most parts of the city. Behind the bar down stone steps there is a lake that is filled with rocks. Water fills a small skimming surface over the rocks before it drops to suddenly deep waters. This too is a tourist attraction and the tourists and few Mulay children walk on the rocks, making it seem like they’re walking on water. In this lake on the farther deeper end there is a wall made of those city holding pillars that blocks the ocean. The lake is actually part of the ocean. Waves crash against the wall and at the top of the stone steps near the bar you can see over the wall and the ocean in it’s whole. This is one of the few places where you can see the ocean but strangely enough not many people stand there to watch it but instead are more drawn to the lake.

We were two bookshelves walking. The loosely constructed panels of our shelves stray pages fall away like sheds of hair. Our legs were weak and bending, folding, under the weight. …. How old were we? We were ten thousand years old. Thick black tar was in us both. It lingered for so many years. It was like sweat seeped from us but never left. Two bookshelves walking. My arms were branches and ants crawled in my arms. I reached forward and to the side into your shelf while we walked and scratched the panels of you, tore your books. I grabbed hold of three. A small thin book balanced and slid off one of the larger ones which eventually fell. We still walked and I tore and folded, ripped the only book I had. The paper was crumpled under my branches. I could barely read it. It was beautiful though and I liked it, the words I read. It was just paragraphs of bats and curse words, the color yellow. My eyes I lost my eyes then and tried to hold it closer but my branches lost hold of it. It fell. Around us were tall buildings until we walked to the beach. Shards of bodies -- bookshelves-- were in the sand. My body was starting to break and so was yours. Still trudging through the sand I was losing my balance. I walked towards you and your branches reached into me. I wasn’t sure which book you grabbed. You looked bored or intently reading. I don’t know.

A man stabbed me in the head three times. I asked him, “Why?” He said, “I have to go.” The surprisingly underwhelming pain of being stabbed in the head led me to a dizzying state of mind and forced me to collect myself in a chair. My chair morphed into a beautiful woman’s mouth. The lips were like slices of grapefruit. I fell between them and laughed. Then I poked a finger into my skull, and laughed. The ground grew broad and navy blue.

You ever become kind of pummeled by the fact that every person holds a universe of emotions, moments, senses, feelings, dreams, sensations, worries and hopes; then even more pummeled by the questions of what will they do with all of those? How will they hold them? How heavy do they weigh? I have a hard time dealing with all that, sometimes. I want to help people and create things that connect to those webs of life: the soul. But I’m hesitant to disrupt people’s stream of living, you know? I'm always questioning whether I’m moving in the right direction or if I’m just swimming in circles. That’s my problem... and everyone else’s, probably. I should stop being so serious. I feel like I'm missing the present moment just as it starts and mourn for it as soon as it appears because I know the very sight of something is the signal of it exiting. I’m depressing, haha, and depressed. Bologna.

In a dimly lit Catholic church a Mexican pastor preaches in Spanish. My Spanish isn’t very good but eventually he begins to recite a long rolling list of names. My family came late and the seven of us stand at the entrance, not wanting to disrupt the already evolving religous ceremony. My little brother’s hair is combed and folded neatly on top of his round pale head. His skin glows in the Sun. He's six years old and stands with his hands clasped gently in front of him while his chin is tucked downward against his chest. He’s done this every weekday morning before because he goes to catholic school. We've never done this before; the rest of us do the same and my Mother kneels down to kiss his broad forehead. “Are there any seats?” asks one of my younger brothers.

a small snowy suburban city. That was ruled by a military regime. One day me and a girl steal a bazooka and impulsively blow up a part of town. We leave by the counsel of parents and tell a few people who hate the town that we’ll live in the snowy hills. We live there and dig further into a hill. Military regime people eventually try to find us and we all live in the hills. An insane person comes by we try to kill her but she’s preserved by the Ice and lives with us.

I’m going to stop using this site, so I’ll be posting a bunch old draft posts. To anyone that knows me irl they probably don’t reflect my emotional state at this moment, or are fiction.

Tired of so many things in life lately. I keep wavering from damn I can’t take this to fuck it lets just get this over with.