i feel like this white carpet, well lit existance is killing me. i feel like i should be sleeping in a shack in the woods, the desert. laying my head down under a bridge or in a ditch, the sky above me instead of a white painted cieling, insulation and a new-ish roof. thousands of miles behind me, between me and wherever it is i've been. a basest existance. to sleep road-weary, to wake with the sun. i need adventure, i need to be back on the road.
when i'm in this house i feel nothing. life shouldn't be about holding back one's desires.