Just two days ago on the 3rd of the month, I turned 177. That number doesn’t do much to express how old I feel. I’m on a grayhound bus headed north to my home in Indianapolis. I just spent a week in El Paso with a friend, Mark, who moved down there because of his dad getting transferred. It was an interesting spring break. Travelled back and forth across these United States all on my own. I could’ve wandered off anytime and I still can. Pretty scary but I miss my friends. Mark’s birthday is the 9th, Jesse’s is the 4th, my dad’s is the 10th, my brother’s is the 21st (different sign though… think gawd) and I’m sure that my dog’s birthday is this month, too.

The shakiness of my handwriting is coming from the bus. If this shit keeps up I might have to quit. I can’t believe how little that I have written on this entire week. There was so much.

I’ve been reading a lot. Stephen King and Peter Straub’s The Talisman. It is having an incredible effect on me. Incredible coincidence and synchronicity. Drank a whole fuck of a lot in Juarez. Sorta disappointing because I hate drugs but it was a trip drinking in bars.

There is so much I’m holding back. The first evening of my trip south was beautifyl. The sky and color was exquisite. And my mind was habitating nonstop rhythms of mindtransing thoughts. If only I had wrote.

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