There is a road that meets the road that goes to my house // Language is the liquid

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I was reading some stuff the other day that got me thinking about this lecture about desire, and this lecture about Simone de Beauvoir.
Bonds. Human Bonds. *drinks martini*

Also this.
kekekeke

* * *

and what ghosts there do remain

& the water rolls down the drain

When I am driven to write, it is already too late and I become an utterly shackled captive... Thus, after writing and garrulously chatting I often feel I have surely done something tremendously pointless. This results in me lacking the spirit to write. Nevertheless, thus far and from here on out, I have written, will continue to write.
My impulse to wander comes about from the uneasiness of staying still... and this uneasiness is for me quite dreadful.

Dada lives, baby

Dada lives.

* * * Post-post

I HATE EARWIGS YOU GUYS