this young summer

i really feel a tourist in

i figured

you'd want me to be in love with you before i left

some bullshit

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

i want people to say things about me like

"she cleans up real nice"

real genius

i am writing

a semi-fictional diary

a pseudo-autobiography of sorts

yes, "a philosophic exploitation of experience"

a dramatic playing-out of non-theatre (you, my audience, and circumstance)

i am finding it harder and harder to differentiate truth and creation. harmless lies or emotional over-exaggerations? my swinging moods and fervent imagination. meaningful and meaningless, all flowing out of the same source.

oh ganga mia! how i must return to your threshold in the rolling green artichoke-heart of those silencing himalayas.

stitch them shut!

pure perfect karma

everything is exacting