I can't seem to think in order to produce.
Chopped off my head to some people's dismay.
Fuck it. I want to give roundhouse kicks to the face.
Seems my hair wasn't the only thing that was severed as of late.

Everything feels very surreal and detached. Maybe that's why I can't conquer my work right now.

This white room is surreal. The mirror is surreal. The present is surreal.

How do I feel about it?

Ah, whatever.

I just want to write and sing and
laugh at reactions.

What's more: I may have the opportunity to study drawing abroad in Rome if I apply for a scholarship (all expenses paid!) affiliated with Tyler over the summer. Roberto Osti has enough faith in me to think I can do it. If only I could find the link on the fucking website. Surrealism at its finest. God knows if it'll actually happen.