No one cares about your dreams (either kind)

I was in Nature, like a pasture. The grass glowed green and there were many puddle ponds deep navy blue, their edges blending into the grass. No trees blocked the horizon. Everything was space, and everything glowed. I had the feeling of slow-leaping around, like a moon man. No one was around. There were giraffes running.

I thought this thing a sort of letting go, a return, a release of anxiety. For a few days, I was amazing, bright, in-charge, resilient and hopeful.

I looked at Fletcher's photos. I like looking at his photos, unearthing whatever it is that I can't find. It's the slow life, the trees, you guys hanging out in your underwear. The time to create my own beautiful vortex, world worlding, champagne bubbles on my tongue and tummy.


Being jostled whichever way the L train jerks, I woke up blank again. I don't give a fuck about fame. I don't give a fuck about money. I don't give a fuck about working at Vogue. And I don't give a fuck about going to shows.



Am I just afraid to be not nothing?
Is this about control?