talking to you makes me sad sometimes, like standing in a museum mortified staring at a work of art i've damaged, too prideful to be scared of security and unwilling to run away anyway. fiction comes much harder when i've got this sincerity burning a hole through my attempts to have the ol' pomo inspirations create pages of vaguery with no particular focus other than the focus itself and perhaps some gestalt impression of a utopian world populated by beautiful hitchhiking emo hobos (QC, 2005) mingling with unshaven bodhisattva intellectuals and struggling coercive musician/scientist boy wonders. but that world only exists for the fortuitous few, and they're all young, and i can't stay surrounded by my friends forever, and i don't know what to do about all the people who want to grow up to be farmers and suburbanites, listening to classic rock Q107 until the day they day, throwing barbecues instead of parties for drinking and kissing and reminiscing with work associates about when the office was younger with their mouths but when they were younger with their minds.

let's get focused. there's the sincere bullshit, the self-doubt bullshit, the call-to-arms bullshit, and the cohen-wannabe prettiness (when it's good), which is still bullshit. i was getting on a bit of a roll at the end of that last paragraph, even though it was a little call-to-arms-y for my liking. hopefully more in that vein today. i was going to say "later today", but you say i'm going to do something earlier today, so the word "later" in the sentence woulda been completely redundant.