it's lonely to travel, it's lonely to stay here. being alone is such a part of me now, how would i even begin to be kind again? the last time i layed across someones naked body in my bed was probably the last time for good. it seems like death, touring, writing, singing, panting, exploring, all of it owns me now. death doesn't scare me, i knew it was coming, but what will i do before i die? is this it? is it moving and recording? is there any thing left to tell anyway? anything worth recording? well fuck it, i used to try and write it down as it happened and in order, last night i tried to split it up and lay it out. fuck it all to hell, the way i think of it now is how your going to get it, shots of my childhood, peices of my worry, one mess for one kid to make. when i was a kid i used re-arrange everything around me all the time and none of it made sense and i haven't really changed. i'm tired of poetry, when something hurts i'll just say why. i wanna write plain so it's impossible to cover myself up.

i spent alot of time with zac, we argued, sometimes i can't tell when he's joking. he will say to me "yeah, sure you tour, but, i mean, it's not real, i mean, their not real gigs." and he says he's kidding, but sometimes i just can't tell. when i was young i was unsure of everything. i was sure of breaking things and being mean. i mean, i knew that you didn't hit girls and that god was good and that anything you did and got away with was alright, but now i'm set in alot of my ways, but still unsure of how to spend these last months. theres always room for questions, doesn't matter where you sit.

the french government have a linguistics department that ensures no one word has more than two meanings. i remember everything i ever did, it's all their, ive only got think on it and it comes back, but it looks like a picture of a tv screen when i remember it. it looks scratched and old and watery. these times i used to spin around and run really fast into a tiny forest just out of town that my dad would take me and tyler too, he wore a pantera t-shirt alot, and i would spin around and go and run around and pretend to hide from wolves.

all my memories about being a kid back in lincoln, they all smell like dirt. not in some metaphorical sense but actually sniffing dirt.

i saw a man on a tram today, his ears were scabbed all to hell and the dry blood just piled on the dry blood, he couldn't read any signs anymore and was confused at the broken ticket machine, what will happen to my body when it starts to go? i can already see my ribs and i'm whiter than a sheet.