the weight of the world is love

Allen Ginsberg is haunting me. Not in the eery, poetic way... more so in the "I'm going to find you and kill you because you are not yet published, Miss Mari" way. I see his hair- vaguely reminiscent of a mad professor- and owl glasses that sheathed nearly expressionless eyes in my dreams. 

Not that I am dreaming much, as of late.

It is not that I do not want to publish, oh Great Ghost of Ginsberg Past. I do. However, generally publishers enjoy having a manuscript of sorts to work with. Or so I've been told. 

(the tea I am drinking tastes like marijuana)

I write constantly. Maybe not constantly, but rather I THINK about writing constantly. Life tends to get in the way of said things, though. Life, and dead poets popping into torrid fantasies between myself and David Duchovny (uninvited, if I may add).  

I enjoy broken people.