American Spirits

This time it's 4:05 AM when I begin.

All my roommates are gone for the week. This is the first time my apartment has ever been so empty. It's strange, but I'm growing rather fond of it. I smoked a cigarette in here, because I can and there's no one to complain about it. Pretty pointless, but it entertained me for a few minutes. Now I'm trying to clean, trying to sort my thoughts out.

Headed to Boston Monday morning. We've got no place to stay so we're just going to hit up the Dropkick Murphy's show and then pull an all nighter in the city. Come home sometime the next day. I figure it'll be entertaining enough.

I've got Say Anything on and I'm attempting to clean the apt. Obviously, I'm sitting here writing about it instead. I'm just anxious tonight. I have been all day. Tonight is not a night I want to be alone, and I miss the times I'd be spending nights with good friends. Right well, cleaning. I'm going to get on that.

One attempt at legitimate content: I've been reading lots and lots of Rumi poetry lately. I'm rather a fan. Also rereading Catcher in the Rye for the umpteenth time.

I met a man named Gypsy George who looks exactly like Rocco from Boondock Saints. Uncanny.


Come, come, whoever you are.
Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.
-Rumi.