Trees are growths in the earth and grass is like hairy mold on a pumpkin left out too long. I’m angry and sad and I feel empty, but I guess I’d rather be outside than in my room, my fucking dark box that reminds me of bad trips and mildew even though there isn’t any. The sun is majestic and I’m tiny, and it burns me a little, bakes me around the edges, crisping my skin like a potato chip. This is California and I’m glad it’s dry here because if it were humid I’d feel even more gross than I already do all the time. Let me face the sun, close my eyes. The sun is yellow colored, like my memory of CSSSA. I wish it would burn all the acne off my face.
The leaves on the grapevines are turning red, slowly, starting at the tips, like they’ve been dipped in blood. I hope I look that beautiful when I die.