ryan

at this point in time, I feel Charles Bukowski describes me best:
I’ve been drunk in front of cracked bathroom mirrors in Southern towns of nowhere holding a paring knife near the jugular vein and grinning
that’s when I learned that stage play is a great substitution for reality: the only separation between doing and pretending to do being the infinite hairline of choice: a choice between nothing and nothing
to awaken in the morning, to find a place of employment where the workers accepted everything but the dream of escape. There where so many places like that. There was a job in this town in Louisiana which I left each evening tired and dulled to that night again pouring glassfuls and looking out the window and thinking about a girl at work in an ill-fitting green dress who cursed continually about almost everything I only wanted to fuck her once and get out of town. I only got out of town. Which means I made a choice between staying nowhere and going nowhere and I imagine if she’s still alive she’s still cursing about something
but I no longer hold the pairing knife near my jugular vein-
the end is getting close enough all by itself