3 a.m.: the dark soul of midnight.

i hate the three a.m. fight. i hate the blurry nature of the beast that lets you talk in circles but will not let the anger subside. i hate that all you can hear are the awful city sounds like banging pipes, glass breaking on the street below, hell cat in the alley. At three a.m. there are no children laughing, or good-natured catcalls, or dominoes clacking on the sidewalk tables. There is only hatred and quiet. That awful combination that breeds nothing but more of its sad sad self. I hate the night air filled with the sugarplum dreams i should be having swirling around me mocking me, taunting, saying, "You started this. You started this. You."

foucault

i am of the personal opinion that one should not read Foucault before bed unless one desires random, almost horrifyingly comical dreams about having sex with cousins. and giraffes. i'm just saying.

oh onions...

...you motherfuckers.