15 notes &
Dear new diary,
I love you. It’s been so long since I found a notebook I like to write in. It has to fit certain specifications and you’ve got them all. You can fold back on yourself. You’re big enough to fit a song but not too big to fit in my bag. You’ve got folders for little scraps and such. And you fit my pen snugly in your spirals. You make me want to write.
And that’s what I’ve been doing. A little spurt. Thoughts coming out freely. I’m probably jinxing us right now by drawing attention to our bond. But things aren’t all roses, are they.
Pro tools. My pro tools rig is an asshole. He just shit the bed and now how the shit am I going to finish all this music. I’m going to unzip and take a piss on him. Wet him real good like. I hate him.
But he did last me eight years. That’s good for a piece of machinery. Not like you—made from mother earth’s trees and processed for my selfish aspirations. Good thing I didn’t write this stuff out on your pages. I can just delete this if I like, with a simple click of my pointer finger. I’ll save the good stuff for you. Our (not-so) private dance.
-ve
