LENNON: "It is a teacher-pupil relationship. That's what people don't understand. She's the teacher and I'm the pupil. I'm the famous one, the one who's supposed to know everything, but she's my teacher. She's taught me everything I fucking know. She was there when I was nowhere, when I was the nowhere man. She's my Don Juan." (a reference to Carlos Castaneda's Yaqui Indian teacher) "That's what people don't understand. I'm married to fucking Don Juan, that's the hardship of it. Don Juan doesn't have to laugh; Don Juan doesn't have to be charming; Don Juan just is. And what goes on around Don Juan is irrelevant to Don Juan."

: )

I woke up early just so that I could feel the morning in my veins. It’s like gravel. Nothing else really quite cuts it and that is sad in its own way. So I sit with my gravelly mornings, completely dependent on my caffeine buzz to make the world coherent. It’s like being dragged awake with gluey sleep, coma like, still clogging my insides. It’s like a violent shove. I can see the world outside from where I’m sitting and it makes me want to draw all the curtains. There isn’t enough caffeine and tobacco in the world at times to make me ready to face the day and its cheery minions. The thought of having to work makes me contemplate suicide. I should be allowed to pass the rest of my life in my sweatpants. I seriously am thinking about discontinuing my newspapers. There’s nothing I wish to read about the world, especially not this word vomit, not by people who can use hideous words such as snuck and not have it on their conscience. No one draws cherry trees or their blossoms. The world does not seem to miss these things. I have no real reason to be awake. I can’t think of a single person I’d want to talk to right now.

Big love.
Big big love.
I've been saved by a ladki : p

I PICK AT MY SCABS.
MY WOUNDS DON'T HEAL.

How could anyone confuse truth with beauty, I thought, as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Truth came with its hair grey and unkempt. While beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer

The expression of dissatisfaction is taken too seriously. There’s a belief that some strange alchemy will lead to alleviation of stress through constant dissent. I was told that I have the perfect face for cosmetics. Of course I do. I’m blank, anyone can fill me in whichever way they choose to. I want delicate cursive letters on my wrist today. Internet, I haven’t eaten in days. I wonder why it doesn’t seem to matter. Cigarettes are wonderful.