Politics, religion, and her.

Summer makes me nostalgic, but for a life I never had. Imaginary adventures I only went on in books, in songs.

King, and Simmons, McCammon, Gaiman, Lumley; they drugged me, carried me out into a world that was dangerously safe. It was a hell of a lot better to fight monsters that lived on a page instead of the ones that lived across the hall and in my head.

I died, on the final pages, only to be reborn on Chapter One, of whatever book was next.

And when it was too hot to read, when I needed to let go, when I couldn’t use my brain, I drowned in music. Eclectic at best, some days it was Kershaw and Williams, some days Sinatra and Martin, and when I needed reminders that anger was beautiful too, I delved deep into Slayer, Pantera, and Lamb of God. I went on manic dance parties with rancid and the ramones, and I found heavy melancholy with Cohen.

Summer now...it has no definition, no markers to separate it from winter or spring or the abyss. It’s all just the same now, the magic is gone. We pretend like that’s normal.

”Let's talk about anything. Anything in this world, but politics, religion and her.”