one hundred seventy two

I feel like i’m dreaming all day, drifting, and the beginning of yesterday and the end of today are all jostled together, and i can’t remember anything that’s happened, and am barely cognizant of what is.

I need to sleep more, methinks.

Anycase, been reading The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño, which is a work of pure shining genius. On its surface, it’s a story about a nonexistant art movement in Mexico City during the seventies and about its two leaders. Beyond that, it’s a story of incredible madness, of every art movement, of inexhaustible desperation, of the transience and endless fallacies of love. I’ve been reading a lot of heavyweight novelists lately, and this, i think, is my favorite of the summer, though we’re only a month in.

I’ve been feeling inspired lately, but’ve yet to type out any of these people shouting in my ears, dancing through my dreams, and clawing at my insides. It’ll pour out when it’s ready, and, until then, i’ll be shoving as many stories as i can inside, from film to novel to music.

Depression is boring and i’m done talking about the failings of all of this. One day, i’ll phoenix through again.

Poets never die.

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