your legs are broken, your smile is only slightly crooked, the way you wave your hands and wiggle your fingers when you grin, and the 17 or so days you’ve spent in whatever county of some altered state are all comfortably shadowy reminders of a time i’d rather begin sketching in a way that contains shades of purple with splashes of green, as opposed to grey, gray and graehhhy. with a delightfully detached sense of humor comes the – don’t really want to call it a… – threat of losing any lifers one may have collected recently. lifejackets are pretty fucking required but there is little enforcement of anything going on these days; subsist at your own risk. flashes of impressionist existence combined with undertones of shittypretienmelodrama are a tempting excuse for scraping the slate clean and investing in a typewriter. … and for any of you that find yourself pinned beneath tables or the weight of your own thoughts, i don’t really have any idea what to say to a single one of you other than maybe “take a vacation and wreck something meaningless”.