Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.

I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.

There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.

I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.