massive.

not enough hours in the day. getting behind schedule. too much going on at the moment to maintain punctuality. change once settled.

movin out.

old crow.

weekend out.

back to reality. living two seperate lives. love one and one not so much.

280 post soon.

and wild turkey.

robber baron.

dark at the end of the tunnel.

wanted: old money. real southern belle. god-fearing and full of flowers, or whiskey swiging woman from wrong side of the tracks, or median.

bright lights.

i plan on making an attempt to write in this everyday, not sure why. maybe it is the 70 page goal i have set for myself. i am sure it will cease within a week.

strong wind last night howling through the concrete canyon of dts. from the ocean and into the west. the wind, when combined with the rattling of windows and the creaking old building produces an eerie sound. difficult to sleep the past couple of nights. consumed by thoughts on a variety of subjects. most of which excite me in some way shape form. finally settle, sleep, wake.

dead beat tired this morning.

and alot of this.

ahab.

call me captain.

elite.

present: deep into hst. gonzo loves company.

meanwhile: jk sits, eyes fixed on horizon. san fran shipyard, patiently smoking hand rolled cigarette, wating for the princess of the pacific. soon enough sweet prince.

constant: strive for inspiration, motivation. slay procrastination.

daddy out. countdown begins.

there is a sixpack in there (only one now).

weekends are sin.

weekends are balance.

weekends are great.

semi-pleased by hints of semi-productivity.

friday=study with the ocean. belligerence. puke with the artist.

saturday=hump the dream for a sum of $12. spirits down. (lack of) bon fire. talk of explorers.

sunday=substance death. more ocean study. lockout.

reset.

hangman.

let's move to the mountians, vacate the buzz of everyday life, build a humble log cabin in the middle of the woods, and live off the land, we can tell folk stories to the locals about city life, learn to play the jaw harp, and develop a twang, distill our own moonshine and get raging drunk around a fire in the bitter cold, raise a couple of barefoot bluegrass children who swim in the creek and catch butterflies in nets, imagination runs wild.