a place to put words

"Anyways ur a softie But sweet dreams ! Hey *disregard that last part"  - a series of texts from a friend "ur cool but difficult to understand"  - another friend

they had the exact same number of people following them as they did following others. this implies that they followed each of their followers first because they know them. i broke the equilibrium by following them first. this implies that i am the first person to follow them out of the blue. breaking the existing pattern implies that i am desperate and lame. this all implies that i should shut the fuck up and go to sleep.

for some reason i have been thinking a lot about time recently. but i have nothing to say. to speak, to write, to explore the brain yet return to find the map indecipherable. a cartography of illegible memories and desires. Lacan said that that the unconsious is structured like a language. if so then i explore the crevices of its grammar and find nothing. a lexicon whose symbols are suffering. i dont want to feel bad about myself, i dont. this is just how i think.  so as you tell me its okay and laugh at my angst behind my back just know that i am smiling at your words and the joke.

there seems to be something that connects us. all things. like an eternal tide that refuses to do anything except for flow. it manifests in poetry, music, and all the things to which we tap into some inner energy that explodes outwards in a way that is incalculable. akin to all the worlds forms being projected at once, every experience and interaction and stimuli all on display and then condensed into one stream of radiant energy. a friend told me and showed me a jazz performance where to solo was so beautiful that the person who was supposed to do the next solo up and left. he knew that he could never add to it. the ability to see such radiance, to tap into it, and for others to know it so well that they can understand their own limits in relation to it, this is incredible to me. if music can exist than goddamnt so can god. there are higher things, things that cannot be explained, that pulsate constantly. the city has its own jazz, one that academics and writers merely kill with t