Singing, I Don't Exist.

I've been living for days to come, for a smile to fade the scars, for salt wind to wake me up, for a Kerouac night in the woods, for you to come back, for something to write.

I've listened to my four Regina Spektor albums on repeat for the last four days. Nothing else. "A man destined to hang can never drown". Nothing seems like it's meant to be anything lately.

I sound like those mornings I used to cry because the bloody red of the sun rising was the only evidence I could find that life exists.