Last weekend I stayed up for 46 hours straight. I ran the distance between Bloomsbury and Soho having only had two caffeine pills - my heart was stopping but my feet kept on going, jumping off the pavements and running past the sex shops and secret bordellos.
It's been a weird set of moments. My body refuses food but doesn't mind red wine. It's all endless talk and no sense, most of the time just boring rambling about childhood and junkies and love and sometimes trivial things like mixtapes and documentaries. My tiny place is messy to no end with clothes scattered on the floor and the bed, I just don't have the time to be there. Elsewhere is more important.
I wish I could write everything down and then erase it and pretend it never happened - not because it's been horrible but because it's been nice and easy. I'm just confused in a very pure way and don't know what to do or say anymore, it doesn't feel like anything rational.
The heart wants what the heart wants but what if my heart's just as confused as my head?
Fucking hell I don't think I'm jumping to conclusions
but I think this is a huge, mindblowing disaster in the making.
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