There is something about sitting at a desk with a typewriter that makes the right words come out without thought, without knowing what you are going to even say.
My computer is failing and the thought of backing everything up onto a piece of shit external hard drive frightens me. Mac is fucked.
This dented to shit laptop, full of sand (literally.. . sand, after a heavy tape dispenser 'broke' on the desk right above my computer and dumped sand all over it) It has been a loyal Macbook since 2008, that's around the time everything started to die.
Everything that you could hold in your hand.
Photographs, books, cd's, letters.... etc.
It saddens me that writers aren't traveling around with their typewriters, and that there isn't a phone booth in sight.
Where are all the drug dealers?
Where are all the dark rooms?
What the fuck happened to roller skating?
After spending so many summer field trips and eating so much shit at the World on Weels, it finally closed.
That was the first place I ever roller skated.
Everything I love, all the old shit, is coming to an end.
I have no choice but to move on with it.
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