i’m nostalgic for my mid-20s. and i’m only almost 32. there is something to be said about that. (what a generic fuckin genre trope of a phrase. there is something to be said about everything, no matter how banal.)
Wilco Chastain Park pouring rain entire show / double date in front of me all sat down when the band left the stage at the end of the set, each lit up their own individual j, they slowly smoked their individual j’s, staring straight ahead, kids in front on the side and behind
He woke up, drank some coffee, and immediately began. The juices or whatever they are flowed and he caused trouble and generally acted as an annoyance. Frankly it was the only thing that he knew how to do. It was his thing.
A starter’s pistol in the hands of an arrested 31-year-old. Developed arrestment, that is. The days are almost at their fewest. Two more nights counting this, which makes time short and funny-feeling. It is a very good funny, in case you were wondering.
"That’s my thing. My thing that I do. That I spend the majority of my time here doing." The unconscious inclusion of ‘here’ presupposes the existence of an elsewhere, of which there exists no certain knowledge. Stay the course then, but play the odds that this it. It would be absolutely ridiculous not to. There is an argument for a wasted 9 years. Though that depends on one’s definition of ‘wasted’. And you see, the argument falls in on itself in an intractable heap of sorrowness. The depressing strings gain sound, becoming louder and happier than any normal Tuesday evening.