No edit pano of the sunset in my hood haha
Stress relieving
Gonna get back to posting more of my photography and writing instead of my lame life haha. Carson, chattahoochee, July 26/27th

I’ve got a brewing stor(m)y tale inside raging and it’s manifesting itself in my life. It’s twisted. I hate being a writer, an imaginer, a tall tale telling target of the craziest thoughts.

I wonder when you will notice how much is actually wrong with me.

Not being able to get out of the shower because the bathroom floor is a hundred stories down. Literally. I could fall and die or tell each story but there’s no elevator. Think about it.

It’s like being on LSD. Your reflection is an old dubbed karate flick. Slightly behind reality. Getting real reckless trying to burst the veins in a pen so it bleeds out logically instead of blowing your brains all over the paper.

I hate telling stories and feeling emotions. I can’t tell if they are my emotions or I’m feeling them for one of poor stricken friends who decided to confide in me.

Art is death. Every artist is tortured. People who can’t see art always complain but they have it so easy. I feel for every real artist who has an idea at 3am in the morning and knows they should be sleeping but their head won’t let them.

I’m not even a real artist. I just interpret other peoples pains and joys so that non-artistic people can almost understand them. That’s the worst. I’m the middle man.

There’s a story inside, a song, another reality clawing itself out in my actions and people judge me because they don’t know it’s not me they’re looking at. I’m just a reflection of my surroundings, a reflection of them.

Art is death.

Burning down the city