I feel like I want the drugs, the extra pre scripts that dull and conjecture me, juxtapose my posie me with poised poses that work on the city. Big cities, we all freaky people-span of attention quizzical and busy. Don’t want to be like those Ridilin kids, that predays when chest felt empty, hollow feels and dull mouth mumbling stubbles. Want the focus though. Craving it, insane with the turbulence of concentration flummox just hazy day/night pulling eyes towards bookies and epubs; texts perused aloof for half minutes then abandoned for miles as I run lapse to other projects. Poor bookies, old and new and digital too, looking for touch with silent folds and bookmarks saving forgotten trysts.
Want focus but it must be earned by me. Natural work my butt off training without the montages. Spend some hours for several pages or sparse ink lines.