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09 May 2010 @ 04:10 pm
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Last night I dreamt about going on holiday to Japan. See, even my subconscious is rebelling.



I can't write. I can't. There is inspiration, everywhere, everywhere - in rain, petrichor, in Charles I's final push for martyrdom at the gallows, in Kerouac and his sweaty, gritty, decadent dreams of Los Angeles summers -pickup trucks and five-year diaries and hitchiking into the sunset; in black eyeliner, black tea, choices made over again streets at night wind and rainno one wondering where I am; fragile hours, ephemeral, tenuous, radiant with uncertainty - see I can't even articulate this properly. Poetry is calling and I cannot answer.

It scares me.
 
 
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