Maybe I am wrong

Maybe he is right and music touches closer than the written word. Certainly I feel the pain of this. Of beating my head against the keyboard, honing something awkward and clumsy into something smaller, but still awkward, still clumsy.

140 days of sex and all I have to say about it is that it was done and that I quite liked it. I learned nothing from any of it. I am myself as I always was still the clumsy awkward child hunkered down between the speakers and the music getting closer to it than the thousands of words. 140 days of sex and still I have written nothing that could be called beautiful. Pissing syllables into the ocean.

I want to say 'there is no point to it.' I want to say 'we are, I am so small and mean nothing ultimately'. I want to say 'we fucked and it passed the time and then one day we died and none of it was worth the poetry.' I want to tell you that the words dissolve in the getting on with things, in the hollowing out of mountains, in the rising tides, in the trudge towards the grand destruction. I want to say all this but in a way that will touch you and make you feel that you have come to these ideas alongside me. I want to trick you into thinking that you are not alone when we all are, endlessly and pointlessly insignificant.

But words fail me.