I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

They say he had a poet’s heart, but his lungs couldn’t breathe in the words. Trapped isolationism was just a secondary nature, with tired brain trying to spew out more shit being not far behind. There was something he could do though, something that felt mmmmmmm good, so he did it some more. Nights cane often and he lost himself as often as he could. Mm good. Someday it will come he thought, knowing it wasn’t true. Neither was true. So he vomited shit that people continued to flush until it was over. Just over & Justly over.

Anyone know what the hell is going on in this one? Anyone?