when you don't live your own life whose do you live?

i don't sleep at home anymore. 


overnights in the houses of the LA rich, scouring their fridges to see what these people eat, how they feed themselves. and i don't mean just la nourriture. 

they all have cable, nesty pillows and hard mattresses. i toss and turn at night and dream of being made a vampire, get up and eat to rid myself of the taste of blood. maybe they don't have bones. 

sometimes their houses aren't fancy. sometimes they have beautiful views of the city at night and their neighbors play coltrane and robert johnson and i sit smoking on the wall of the canyon transfixed by the lights, the stillness up here in the hills. 


the hollywood sign after all is just some oversized letters staked into the hillside. it's what it represents that i never bought into.


but their scales don't agree. 


i'm going crazy. 




and i'm losing all my friends to their lovers. 


not that i mind. i have so much energy it's all i can do to keep myself contained.