Sometimes it seems like the creation energy just pulses, festers, and overwhelms him. The desire to make art is overpowering. If left frustrated it might necrose his spirit into the sentimentless shell that he knows to be the souls of those around him.
It's a cold night outside. It's going to take a sweater under his overcoat to keep him from the northern wind, which serves to sap his locomotive desire. It has been 2 months into winter, and he has almost lost any imaginative hope that there will be enough food to last through the cold.


I'm at home thinking about how much energy I have in this house. XNS. I'm listening to Lady Gaga waiting to drive to an interview at Aeropostale and Forever 21. The philosophical incongruence of their ideas and mine might undermine my desire to work there after 2 hours of doing the job.

I should start packing. Quarter is almost over