[This is an Role Play journal. I do not and am not the talented and beautiful Ian Somerhadler. Don't sue me, all I have is shoes and my imagination.]

Words can fuck off.

I wish could work on senses alone.





I want to feel.
To feel...
him.

tags: ic private

What a waste this is.

You, meaning I, spend thirty something dollars on a bottle of wine in hopes it will offer some sort of escape. Instead I just sit here, unable to read due to my double vision but staring, nonetheless, at a wikipedia article about Idaho.

Idaho was the 43rd state esablished in the U.S.
Fuck this is pathetic.

I think hate Las Vegas. I don’t like to adhere myself to such bold statements because they tend to come back. But I do think I hate it.

But I suppose a bed is a bed though.

My books keep me company, though they aren't much for conversations. Neither am I.
And no one seems to be able to find me here.
That or no one is looking and I’ve become one of those lonely people, a la Eleanore Rigby or Holly Golightly.
Though not Audrey Hepburn of course. I mean the one in the novella, the one who lets the cat run off into the rain. There is no rising music or kiss in the downpour. There is a cab and it drives off.

This is of my own making.

I feel as though I’m in high school. With clearer skin-but listening to the same records on repeat and smoking pot while sitting on the floor. I suppose a floor is a floor as a bed is a bed despite time or location, and maybe even company.

Though surely not even I am that cynical now.

How much do we even change?
How much is natural, a progression, an evolution?
How much is in our control?


Can you stop a change, even if it feels inevitable?
Or is a hotel room with locked doors enough to keep it out?
Is a bed a bed?

I wander out to the balcony after the second joint and I watch the lights. Like nerves inside a brain, they flicker and move. Firing like thoughts and somehow I am a part of it. The collective.

And then they all fade. One by one they go out.
And then it’s morning. And then they are buildings again, and I am just in my hotel room.

Just Eleanore Rigby with no cat in a cab to Brazil.

music: Eleanore Rigby-The Beatles

All my life
I’ve been
dipping my fingers
in miracles,
muddy and thick.

This is the taste of me

Narrow hips
then the sound of bones.
And you exist
For long enough
To eat a quick meal
But never get full.

My thirst goes unquenched.

This serpent stands alone
And eats it’s own tail.

You are the fuel.
You are the cycle.
And I am the byproduct
trapped in the poetry
of your perfect teeth.


This cannot possibly be my life,
I do not recognize my lust.

I find introductions to be most useless. As though me telling you my name and arbitrarily listing interests will shed light upon the type of person I am. How I speak or react, think or fuck. As though telling you that I enjoy the beach at night will unlock some sort of resivoir of information wherein you will know me and we will bond over this asinine fact, resulting in marriage and many babies. Perhaps I'm getting ahead?

I will impress you by telling you I have a splendid knowledge of Shakespeare.
I will tantalize you by telling you I sleep in nothing but a thin satin sheet.
I will amuse you with my down to Earth sense of humor.

Entirely doubtful.

Though I will admit I enjoy writing far more then speaking.
Perhaps that says something about me.
And I like reading even more then writing.

( The Inn )

music: Life On Mars-David Bowie