or, it could be possible that cigarettes and wine make you cry more than usual and be just melodramatic enough to say that it's because of your heart. i like pretending that my heart is a major player in this game and not just an organ. poor heart. poor poor heart.

i'm writing a book. i'm pretty far into it now. i finished an album, now i think i can finish this. it's possible that it's not very good, but i'm doing it. mainly because i need to. i may try to send the chapters out in monthly photocopied zine-like installments, but that remains to be seen. i wish i could somehow survive on some magical income and send the things i do for free out to everyone in the world. or something.

"sigh" just doesn't seem to even come close these days.