I suppose since I have this now, I might as well write in it.
A third weblog, am I lame or what?
That's okay, no one knows about this one, which makes it special.
Well, 'cept Jon, but that's cool.
I'm listening to an Apocalyptica song. One of their slower pieces, "relief".
I am in love with the cello, not so much playing it, as hearing it. The slow slides and hums, the tenor voice. The deep passionate cries, yet bold and strong fortes. I don't think music from any other instrument other than a stringed one, could make me cry the way I do. It's the best feeling in the world to hear good music.

Movies. stories. music. visual art. All of it. Give me more more more.

Saturday night I went to a bar with Dylan, his dad, and Scott. We saw Luke there, and it was alot of fun. Dylan's Dad's band "junkpoets" played. They were a steep step above the other half-drunk bands there.

It smelt like barbeque, smoke, and that scent of his that can't be flattened to words. I can talk about it here, because he doesn't read, nor do the people who would judge.
The way my senses are hightened. The timing of each blade of grass, and the colors. The colors brighter and more contrasted, as if I've played with the settings in photoshop. The way my mind is more free, I can slide from thought to thought. The way my neck muscles loosen and my eyelids become heavy.

But I hate the way he leaves.
the way things end,
it doesn't feel right.
It tears away at me
like acid to delicate tissue.
But I love the way he leaves.
leaves me wanting him more
leaves me craving the feelings


it's just lust
just lust
lust.

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