I am waiting for the moment of inspiration to hit me while I am writing letters and sketching out my journal on a typewriter.
there is a certain dissatisfaction behind failing to get ahead of the melancholy.
I am waiting for the euphoria.
no one can break your heart so you do that little ditty for yourself.
so you break your heart and head
wish the world were different
decadent
and melting away
the platitudes of willful resemblance 