I live in a hotel must keep writing if I’m to be better than everyone else like figure skating like asphyxiating on your own seeping fumes you’re just waiting living in a hotel but I’m not traveling between two points, in mid air, I’m levitating above the earth beneath the sky eyes like static in my three feet from bed to wall there sleeps a genius leave me here to my devices the call could come at any time they’re playing love songs on the radio tonight I can’t relate to that right now note to self : no one cares. your voice is average in worried piles I typed for miles and you just stood there I will begin I will put right this morning terror I have been kissed between the ears by human error leave me here to my devices I need a word to change my life I’ve tied my ankles to the table legs with wire he can’t write so much as type leave me here to my devices I can’t think with all this noise they’re playing love songs on your radio tonight I don’t get those songs on mine you keep fucking up my life
There are fantods that come from, more than anything, slipping up. Not the slight-of-hand, err-of-tongue mistakes but the too-soon/too-late-turn, wrong exit, six-hours-wasted-so-give-up-and-go-home mistakes. The ones that start from rotten ground and grow crooked. The ones where the wrong answer comes from input overlooked, and the results are like like rabbits. Rabbits or insects or some kind of new math germinating into restless self-abuse. Where, afterward, proportion disregards perspective and the whole thing weighs you down in ways that seemed unimaginable when you thought you had the answers - not all of them because I doubt anybody really thinks they have it all, but enough to get by.
I was going to start this month out with a much less known song by a band from Connecticut but I guess this one probably works better because it more directly relates to the rest of the songs I’d like to post, and the things I want to talk about: writing, connectivity, people, apologies, music itself. Maybe we’ll get to the other band tomorrow.
Note to self: No one cares.
I am 23 years old and from Rochester, New York. I tend to live like a hermit and when I am let out into public I have this embarrassing habit of to talking too loud for too long. My name is Brian Latimer.