spill

i'm writing letters to people who don't exist because i think it might help to define me. i figure if they don't exist, maybe they will if i write them and then a part of me will be there to send a reply. maybe not. it doesn't really matter in the longe run, to see ak and find, to hide and be dsicovered. i just find my words running away with me now. i sat on a bench today and just looked out over the grass and the sky and wondered where this was taking me. i read in poetry and prose words that should give me something and i couldn't take anything away. do you nderstand? i couldn't take anything away. the msot compelling inciden is the msuic whispering through my ears of Chopin, Vivaldi, Thcaikovsky - these artists. the stuffy classical dudes. i've never really understood the resistance to them, because the music all tells a story, that's the point, they didn't have tv, and they didn't have raido, and they didn't have all that sensatory stimulation adn sought sublime in still images and sought sublime in the movtives and motions of fiddles and orchestra. maybe that's why its beautiful to me. it spells ou tht the freckles on your skin. the msuic spells out the way ytour hair falls around yoru neck. and it isn't so much lvoe poems, it isn't so muhc love letters, but letters about love or notlove, and it isn't so much music that's love, but music about love and about things. and as the minutes and the day tick away i have toruble keeping my eyes open. its not like i didn't sleep, but it feels that way. all i had for lunch was cereal. but that was enough. i was eating words and music. i find meaning in my words and thats maybe enough, but i want others to also, but maybe they can't and is that okay? is that enough? how fast can i come up with this stuff and if it is fast, is that okay, or am i just throwing something away.

the point is i count your freckles in the music. the point is i see your hair spill. but there isn't really a point. i write these letters to nobody but myself and they aren't even anything to write home about. and i'm so tired. i'm so tired. i'm trying to do everything, and there aren't enough hours in the day. especially when i want to sleep nine hours. i'm pretty sure its nine, but it doesn't really matter because i sleep seven, and its working (though i'm tired).

i just spilled words yesterday and so many words, and a third of them were sex. i'm wired that way, you konw, wired that way. a male, with a penis, and what can i say, a third of them were sex. not the words themselves, you know, because they were all different, but close enough, you know? close enough.

but really, the point is, i see your freckles, count them, in music. and i see your hair spill.