a couple of hours ago we were celebrating the fourth of july. blasted mortars smell like rotten eggs, it's fucking gross. the night before i remember being at wendy's house watching van wilder. it was year ago that i snuck in with brian and byron to see that movie along with resident evil. and then i remember two summers ago when ryan, byron, hannah and i went to see a bunch of movies, including baby boy.

vague recollections and deconstructed dreams. i'm writing out of my subconscious now; at the very moment i am neither awake nor asleep. i'm not writing out of my ass. i never write out of my ass. i write the way i think, in that everything is relevant in some form or another, otherwise i wouldn't be thinking about it at all.

even though i hang out with a lot of people, everyone is so into their own shit that there's some sort of distance between me and them. people think i'm always on my own tangent, but i think i understand everyone more than they'll ever know. i'm far, far away, but i see the macro-picture quite fine.

i'm bothered by many things but there's no use in complaining so i don't.

i'm beginning to write notable observations on post-it notes that i keep in my bag. something will come out of it, someday.

i wonder what it feels like to be inspired.