I’m listening to King Krule’s The Ooz (Released today). It’s a masterpiece.

Now I’m back to familiar territory romanticising past experiences, thinking about the lost love. The ones who’ve moved on and figured their lives out.

This year I met and fell for a girl from Spain. It was a strange, inexplicable romance, that felt so real, yet so deathly paining. Since our quasi-recent end, she’s moved on, and after a long break of listening to early Ryan Adams and Bright eyes; I have too. In my dreams and dark moments she reappears to remind me I had someone to say ‘I love you too’ each night to once.

Nowadays the bed is cold, dormant and dead. My own laziness is my own worst enemy. I sit idly clutching my pen at 9am in a shiny new campus. That once may have held promises. Now it’s dead and empty. The days pass by cold and untouched. The corridors echo my pain. The headphones drown out the external world. Conor Oberst’s screams, soundtrack my days. Voices and muttering sound so distant yet they’re so close.

The world is illuminated in HD. My life is passing me by and I have no say in it.

Maybe all these Spanish spoken word segments in The Ooz remind of the Spanish girl. I can’t tell anymore.

The words in me are coming out slowly and painfully, forming after many years a chorherent and tangible tome that grows more weighty by the day.

The world’s still bad and absence makes me feel warm inside. That’s all.

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