Phosphorescent // song for Zula


I have no real care to explain things to you. You’ve already slashed my heart by just threatening your sharp edge against my skin; mocking me as you pressed harder, just enough to leave an imprint. But you are the one who will leave with real scars. The kind that read in the wrinkles that have creased around your eyes. When your hair is gray and your belief is long gone.
I’m not saying I won’t have some of that either, but at least I know I tried – in my last awkward and maybe even feeble attempt – to lay it all out on the line for you. I left myself vulnerable and uncomfortable to look you in the eyes. It’s such a shame. But really, it’s the biggest lesson I’ll ever have experienced in regards to going after love when you know the moment is fleeting. Insurmountable speed has erased our time, and now all I have is the present to get through while clinging to my hope in tomorrow.
So I’ll quietly eat my feelings and desires. I will leave before I have to see anything transpire, proving that this really happened. And when I’m gone and have a view of a thousand setting suns, I will understand that my place in the world has always been right where my feet are planted.

Don’t look for me when I’m gone. I’m not broken Zula.


Unknown Mortal Orchestra // So Good At Being In Trouble

This song is in perfect condition. The kind of condition you’d want to find your newly salvaged Craigslist record player; minty with usage and dusty with treble. I can’t grip the words for this sound because it’s just being. Even if it’s version of ‘being’ is a grand ole ploy to get you to throw your hands in the air and call it quits. Or quitting the constant denial.

Some people are happy, and then others seem to be constantly sad. And there are the lunatics who have a collision of emotions banging against their rib cage pleading to be let go. A deep, aggressive pounding wanting discovery and invention. Sex and money. Problem-solving and sincere problem-arson.

Seems some of us are addicted to the heat.

Twin Shadow // Forget

They always said Grateful Dead’s “American Beauty” was the album that could change the way you thought.  Actually alter the spectrum in which your mind actively behaved.  Dismantling the normal thought process and smashing it into a tiny million pieces.  And while I’m not the person who will begin to compare such legends of an era to a newwave, chillwave, semi-dance/trance music – Twin Shadow and their song Forget – I can still physically and mentally understand how the two are so alike on their separate, infinite musical planes.

Forget by Twin Shadow alters my mind, albeit how NORML-Y enhanced it is and was experiencing.  I literally would nestle myself in all the dreamy analogies this song would allow.  It’d be like waking up on your best pillow scented by your favorite man.  The kind of nighttime slumber song we listen to on our heels atop my bed, stoned and singing as the night drifts into our dreams.

Neon Indian // Polish Girl


Street lights stretched like mosaics, wetted and shiny from the musty rain as the car bladed serenely down Astor Place. Light rockets ricocheted in the sky, fanning from the center of an ostentatious missele who’s destiny was death by explosion. A screaming fell in Sinclair’s lap as she gripped the edge of the car seat with her clammy hands, teetering from the views of pedestrians and drunk fools and her own reflection shaded in the glassy, drop-covered window. If she squinted hard enough she could make out the profile of her driver and his one-handed grip on the wheel, but she needn’t look; she could feel his energy like a bomb had been set off. A hurricane on the cusp of crashing on a coastline. The moment of chaos as something starts to fall from your hands but you are too slow to catch it. All that friction and constant, whispering harassment of two binary energies colliding into one monumental combustion was enough to set off a multi-car build up had it not been for a strong grip handling the wheel of the four door Nisan. A pleasant sense of urgency finally landed the perfect parking spot hidden streets away from their destination – enough time to kill a few friendly fires that had been brewing for weeks now inside the walls of the place they studied. Studied lessons and terms, graded but only on an alphabetical scale. What had been neglected in the schooling systems was how to grade the lessons that fell in-between the gridded lines and margins, except in this bullshit life all that seemed to matter was grading percentages and not the real, what-will-matter-in-your-final-days kind of stuff.

Just as her distinct brevity in societal bullshit was about to come into clear focus her hand was swept into the larger palm of her driver, tensed and firm. She sat there stone silent but cringing in every part of her body that could feel, and she felt all over. The car had been parked. Sinclair had been lost in her momentary daydream that she’d completely forgotten the bar they were supposed to be meeting his brother at. Over-swept by a pang of guilt for the sudden forgetfulness of her boyfriend who’d gone back home to visit his college friends, her face was pulled and turned and her lips parted by his tongue. A wet lick against her bottom lip softened by the cushioned padding of his mouth sucking around her throbbing lower lip. He stayed planted for a while, gently pulling as if to insinuate what else he would be doing later when they were alone in her room and clothes had come undone, perhaps her underwear dangling like fringe off one of her feet as his head stayed deeply buried in the soft curtains and folds of what she’d been purposely keeping from him. And as she contemplated all that was and was going to be, she gripped a handful of hair from the back of his head and pulled him in closer letting her tongue toy with him inside his slightly parted mouth.

Kings of Leon // Woo Hoo

I’m a restless little worker bee. Always thinking the grass is greener somewhere else, never realizing that every time I look back on my life I only see the good. A late-blooming optimist with burdens of a fake pessimist. Can’t I just be? My restlessness makes me nomadic and I wander all over the place never truly settling. My favorite place to be is in transit.

New York City is weird. I’ve done things I never thought I’d see in this lifetime. I fuck around with so many different breeds of people I’m beginning to question why. My motives? Please, they don’t even exist. I have no motives, just opportunities that fall into my lap. A person with heavy will would turn many down, but I can’t say no. And I confuse myself (and others) by my complicated theories and choosy wants. On one hand, I’ll steal you into a forbidden room and have my way with you only to politely abolish any hint of attraction the very following day. Sometimes, I convince myself to fuck with you through any written word, and then when I see you in person I continue these games for my own self pleasure. But you know I always cave and find myself naked in your shower after storming through your front door in a fiery burst of gregarious and exaggerated movements. A spiraling ball of chaos, sometimes my antics even surprise myself. Like that time in bed when I rolled over and made the first move knowing quite well this was much too intimate for us two friends to be sharing together. And I outwardly love these behaviors, but not everyone in my life approves.

I guess I’m exhausted of looking like the lost cause. People have come to my mercy and offered to help pay my way, provide for me, guide me. It’s so abundant and in my face that lately I can’t help but look inwardly at myself. Do they see something I don’t? I have so much fun in my experiences even if they sometimes are dangerous or morally inappropriate; but it’s a life noteworthy and exalting that it titillates every cell in my body.

There is this one itch I can’t get over. I want to move to the beach, somewhere exotic, and give up this life to take a mental detour. I want to work a shit-job and surf all day long. I want to own a jet-ski rental company and enjoy the freest things in life, with people who love to lay in the sun and drink everyday. It’s just for me. And I hope I get my shit together soon enough that my escapism can ravish my bones. I need money, I need to write about all of my ins and outs, ups and downs, and I need to stop giving a fuck about who I need to make happy. The only person I need to please is myself and in exchange I will give back to the community with good humor, good intentions, and a helping hand.

Jukes // Something Important

You’re not mad at me, are you? I don’t know, you just seem like you’re acting weird. Look, how am I supposed to have an answer for you. I try the best way I know how. I’m realistic.

Today was the first day my house felt like home.
New York felt like my cushion that sort of props me up in bed. I was able to just sit and chill with some music and a friend. She was talking about music and girls she thought were soo beautiful. We had pasta and ate well in high spirits. I was thinking about that time at b’s that we finally did it but the door was open and your friend was sort of putting his shoes on in the other room. The craziest chills I got from you slightly putting it in before having to pull out really quickly before your friend saw us. You know we didn’t leave on bad terms. No one had said a serious “fuck off” yet in a screaming match. We only ever did that when we wanted to play with each other, me more than you.

Look. I’m into you. I really like you. I want to pick up right where we left off and just keep going in that direction. And I want to have ten thousand more memories with you so that I’ll have an actual number to count to so that this time I can figure something out before our time runs out. I would too. I’d choose you over everything else if I knew how bad I’d actually be hurting with you not here. This isn’t just like, “oh, he’s gone, that really sucks.” It’s more of a you’re not here so how many different ways can I try to make myself forget. And forgetting is harder than just admitting that I can’t really keep this up much longer.

It’s been some time now and you’re still heavy on my mind. Every time I ask you if you feel this too, you tell me I think too much. And then I feel like I did something wrong while feeling shitty about the person I am. And it makes me not like you as much because I’m not sure if you will ever just let me think without shaking your overwhelmed head. That’s important to me, you know. And I’m fucking sick of saying, “Well, your happiness is all that matters to me.” What lesson am I trying to preach this time? And to who? It’s pulling at me left and right, actually tearing me down this seam deep in my chest that physically thumps when I think about you being happy with someone else, scarier, without me.

I feel like I should mention that the other night I had this dream about your ex-girlfriend. She was playing this old vintage film from a projector on the side of her house, not recognizing that everyone on the street could see. Basically that scene from Problem Child if you even know the reference. But the film she had on was pictures of all my two best friends as she and her bitchy girlfriend laughed and pointed. And then my picture scrolled across the wall and she laughed harder just as you were walking into the room. And you sort of rolled your eyes and told her to turn it off as you set a tray of food down for them. And it didn’t matter to your ex that you had told her to cut the shit because she knew that in a few minutes tensions would settle and she’d be able to snuggle up in the nook where your chin and neck meet. And this dream has turned into an entire day’s nightmare, one that didn’t frighten me as much as shake my insides. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day long.

What we had was from another planet, so why are we just letting it go? I made you smile more in a day than in the past few months of your life. It was like finding out that you were born under a lunar eclipse the day I called you a moonperson. Or how about the night I met you, catching a bouquet and walking into a bar that I’d already written off. That wasn’t where we were supposed to meet, you know? We were there on accident, or purpose with poor planning. Because we never did get our chance to tear eachother apart while we were still in it. And now all we’re doing is at picking at the scab of what could’ve been. But I’m not mad at you. I’ll stop worrying about why you’re treating me like this because I know it’s easier to be mean to the people we care about, but can’t be with. I’ll take all of your whiplash until you’ve run out. Maybe then I’ll have enough in me to entirely forgive you.

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