maybe i don’t deserve it but i’m tired. i would like to just stop. i don’t really know what that means and i also feel the exact opposite. like i would just like to go. to any where. i like feeling night time on my skin wandering but going some where it doesn’t matter where. and then when it feels right to stop. and then stop.
paradise is an old highway with a motel painted pink with fake palmtrees out front and printed onto a postcard taped on the wall next to my bed that i look at when ever i pause from reading some thing and the lighting in the photo takes me into some one else’s short story not one i’ve read but feels familiar enough with out knowing how it ends so it’s probably my short story that i’m writing