Murakami

Much like him, cold nights and Coltrane.

Writing with whisky, weed

a few bad habits lead to indulging the rain by watching it.

Words pour endlessly, yet all lead to the mundane.

People slowy dying, alcohol penatrating their soul.

Others abrubtly with little pain or none at all.

Shouldnt sezuires shake life either in or out ?

If it wasnt for the drugs theyd be a lot worse.

Mental hospitals, walls winding endlessy through like the mans horn.

The conversation is just the chorus.

Meditations on love, loss, joy and compasion.

I write these words not for me but for them.

Travels have come yet more to go, with or without the flow.

My personal statement you ask?

I dont even know where to go.

- Z