eternal summer, and all.

 I am older

and now 

when I write

I dont.

I just think of writing

and the thought suffices 

because actual pen on paper

mediocrity

is the murder 

of the fantacy

that is the idea

of writing

every day I come back 

from school

in the smae

hot

mixed root

of some capitalisim

culture

little spits of green 

and plain ugly

this time 

from 1

to 4 am

is a few hours of 

a personal solitude

and quite esthetics

before the burning clash

of flames

that is others

their conversations 

and schoolwork, immobile.

I am melancholy

dull with hunger

and sleep

and academic

social

failure

I listen to sufjan stevens

bon iver

the antlers

contemporary

tragedy

drenched in the ugliness

the heat

of my town.

I sit in the car, watch the people

I can hardly fathom

burning under eastern sun

and trees lined up neatly

they same endless

as the wind blows through their leafs

I break

daily.