I can't say it like I write it...I can't write it like I think it...I can't think it like I feel it...and I don't feel a thing.
Monday, May 19, 2003
i just described pax217 to kyle as what you'd get if you would mix 311, P.O.D. and stinky, slimy american cheese that's been left in the back of the fridge too long. i think it fits.
He heard the words drag out. He felt them pull out of his mouth like freight cars, jangling, backing up on each other, grating to a halt, sliding, clinching back, jarring, and then suddenly stopping as roughly as they had begun. It was over. --Flannery O'Connor, "The Barber"
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