my father leaves in a taxi, blurred. it should be more momentous that this, there should be string music and slow motion. but all that happens is that reality hits me very very hard in the throat. six months might pass before i see him again, and suddenly i'm a little older, a little more independent. probably a little more scared because for once, i'm going to have to do stuff on my own. i can't decide if that's what i wanted, but i don't think what you want matters that much

xx

i was never one for grand philosophical statements. i was always more prone to bile and bitter, alcohol and anger, denial and dependence. i had ink on my fingers long before i got my first tattoo, and by the time i got my second, i had more than enough words on my tongue to win a war. i was always hungry, and my motto has always been more

is that what you wanted to know?