I don’t want to ask, I don’t want to beg. I don’t care if you like it or not.
I just want it loud. I just want it thick. I just want it screaming until my head throbs.
Until my ears are numb.

I don’t want to ask, I don’t want to beg. I don’t care if you like it or not.
I just want it loud. I just want it thick. I just want it screaming until my head throbs.
Until my ears are numb.
FDR had nothing on me.
Some cut. Some burn.
I bash.
Ever look at a morning and think, “I’ve been here before. I was here in the summers of my youth, when the leaves were still lushly green, in the cool, dew-dropped mornings before the sun rose above the trees. I was here during the first mornings of school, walking to the bus stop through gentle suburban neighbourhoods, with their well-manicured lawns and their interlocking bricks. I was here before the Sunday rides into town, for big breakfasts and milk tea. I was here in another life, and all I’d like is to one day do it all over again.”
I hate being interrupted. When I’m talking about something, I get into a momentum, and interruptions lose all the momentum. It doesn’t matter what I’m talking about or how comfortable/uncomfortable I am talking about it. To me, it’s like trying to tell a joke then being told to wait five minutes right before the punchline. Although someone may remember the first part, the momentum just dies, and I’d rather just forget the whole thing than finish talking.
I enjoy walking in the rain, but I really have to be in the mood for it. And it can’t just be some pussy rain, it has to be pouring. Otherwise, what’s the point?