Kill Your Family

My hands are fucking shaking.
I’m also having trouble differentiating between dreams and reality again. This happens ever so often. I’ll wake-up and swear on someone else’s life that what I dreamt was completely real. I dreamt about reality. Links from a blog, songs I sent to a girl and her response, gardens I’ve never walked through, songs I haven’t written yet.
I once wanted to commit myself as a sociological project. I would be the King of the ward because I’d be good and swallow my sword.
I did my best last night. I went to great lengths to procure and protect my sanctity. I didn’t even want the fucking food, but I ate it as part of this ritual. I needed the sooth-sayer to show me the way by turning his back on me. His silent homily would have spoken louder to me than anyone ever could, but he wasn’t there. Even in his absence he protected me. Even though he will never know what he has protected. He held and stroked the little nose of what I hold dear and for this I will seek him again and again.

I also think I bruised a rib.