dear 310,

you can truly think yourself to pieces.
writing too fast for you to keep up.
and why would you want to anyway?
true oranges and sedated blues.
or is it the other way around?
i am millers paris.
she is always humming. i hate it.
i wish for autumn. i am always thinking of breath in the air and leaves burning somewhere. somehow i attatch it to feeling okay.
in a running home from school kind of way.
just as easily as you run away from your problems, you can run home to them.
moodswings have kind of become protocol around here. like something you have to cross off of a checklist and then have your supervisor sign.
there isnt enough breeze in the suburbs tonight.
i imagine them to be like italy sixty years ago, only with less flamboyance and wider streets.
my head is sticking to the pillow like sleep doesnt want to let me go.
"diary-ing" hard lately. its terrible that i hate what i am most known for.
its like i always just wanted to mean something more than me and than the goddamned second i did, its all "woe is me". its getting old.
i want to be more.
you make me want to be more.
to be shot out into space or to discover a cure to something terrible.
i cant lie, there is something nice about the midwest. calming.
where your waiter is just your waiter and the doorguy is just the doorguy.
not the place where everyone wants to be something they're not.
not as thought it matters but it feels safer.
she looks at me like she knows how fragile i am.
noones hot foreever.
but i, we, all have inside of us continents like he said. vast and lush.
full of guns and loves.
like the two were different by definition.
but they are the same. linked if only by the way that you will always remember your first ones.
then she said, "many african cultures dont believe in the concept of future".


fuck your futures.