A Collection of Spectacles


Long time, no write.


Originally titled, “Lessons in Alcohol” while drunk. Staring at a foreign boy on the platform, F uptown, back home. A moment of mutual, extended gaze occurred when I least expected it, meaning that maybe I should learn to expect things less. Visual stimulation from the outside world meets a cell gradient before traveling to the brain, which seems to devaluate my sense of hearing, a lulling pathway to the cochlea. When will my hip bones show through, push through? I’m not trying to look fancifully emaciated, I’m just fucking poor. Print it on a shirt, see what fits. Push this out because it’s therapeutic, necessary. Great high school misanthropy, how I’ve missed you so. ┬áThis city (hyper-texturized life) which may or may not make it more false than real is still better than stagnant, watch the leaves turn from green to red to non-existent, suburbia. Or, at least those are the points the mind hits during necessary periods of self-assurance. This is how it traps you. I came here, now it’s unreasonably difficult, but I can’t possibly be anywhere else in this country. Too accustomed to the speed. Another letter addressed to you, but swarmed with my own misgivings; lessons in egotism.

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