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2001-07-10 - 3:16 a.m. - the sound of sound breaking

sometimes.

fake a whisper and make me think you have said something horrible about me like they do on all the cartoons and sitcoms, you're just blowing air throw your teeth, regulating its flow so that is sounds like the rise and fall of syllables linked together, making love. i know you don't mean it.

you know i mean it.

there is something dark inside this town that makes people go mad. i feel as if I am the intrepid ship captain marlow traveling deep down the congo river in search of a man named kurtz. and why does this place make everyone so full of hate. why do people feel the need to turn on everything beautiful that comes out of this fucking hole. they turned on aloha. they're turning on clamor. they're turning on ten dollar typewriter. fuck this place. and fuck the hatred it makes so many people feel.

nintendo, its for breakfast now. nintendo, it's a cereal WOW!

i set my alarm clock for 11:11 so that i can make a wish when i wake up. and when i go ouot for breakfast i'll tear my straw wrapper in half and hope the know unties itself.

all these silly superstitions.

rules to live lives by and baromoters by which we measure our future in failures and successes before it is here.

i never went to junior high. i only went to middle school.

i am more failures than successes. i swaer i try so hard. i do. and everything i touch just seems to fall apart somehow like the old black and white detective movies where the detective is doing the best he can but no matter what is done it only makes the situation worse. like chinatown.

forget it, jake. it's chinatown.

forget it, homer. it's chairotown.

and if i had only one wish it would be that you never talk to me again.

and if you send me a postcard i'll make you a mixtape full of barking dogs and screaming birds. and there will be babies crying over the pulsing heartbeat of a hammer on steel. you will ask yerself "where are the songs? isn't this a mixtape? and there will be no songs. only the sounds that tie all our moments together. the white noise that is so carefully selected by a sound editor somewhere who longs only to win an academy award for best hoax on an entire population of a planet.

there is no sound. it's all in your head. sound is something that you dream of and then it becomes real like the sound of my heartbreaking or your sobbing coming from the room next door. none of it is real. it is all broken glass and howling dogs.

you don't even have tear ducts.

lost 'em in the war.

what war?

the war broke all your pencil lead while you were taking your final examination and you had to fill in the multiple choice circles with drops of yer own blood.

oh, that war. i remember now.

i thought you might.

xoxo.

listen to: the white stripes, ten dollar typewriter, aloha, flashpapr, the dismemberment plan.

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