“And you are a part,
Of photosynthesis,
Which is what this is, the air that you’re breathing..
It’s made of fire,
It’s all on fire,
It’s all combustable” —Common,,Kevin Girard.
I like a slow Sunday drive with the windows down. Back roads, some real John Denver shit.
Arm hanging out the window, attached to a hand, a hand holding a Marlboro red 72, between the middle finger and the index finger.
You get little yellow stains on the tips of those fingers, and it’s weird.
I feel embarrassed about that.
I don’t feel embarrassed about the majority of things I do, but that one?
Yeah..
I feel bad about that.
Because I have good hands.
And I couldn’t control myself so now they’re ugly. And they don’t make anything nice, and no one wants them.
(They’re still pretty good hands)
They are..
The best part of my physical form, by far. Not the eyes, not the neck, not the jaw.
Hands.
Holding a poison plant. Traveling right into my lungs while I drive this mild day. Overcast.
And I see horses and I see cows and I see muh fuckin alpacas .
And I am,,,I am,,,
(Aimless)
Content. I feel fine. Baseline. Normal.
It is a lovely day for a slow ride.
dawn 