Nicole Moore

Burnout. Something new must be said, anything. The luxury of being flat. The The. The genuine article.

Another day of fuzzy sobriety, another slow burn. If I'm going to bother doing this, I should do it right - get off the caffeine, nicotine, sertaline, and sleeping pills. This is my comfort zone, comfort with local charity and global obscurity, comfort in self-hatred, comfort in the compliments that are offered, whether I fish for them or not. I loathe to tell people where I live, where I work. I could bide time, and then when opportunity knocks, I'll have money. To spend on things I can pretend at status with. The status, going from one virtual reality to another. But music, as currency. Oh yeah, I’m saving my self-respect for when I could use it for later, like when I’m thousands of miles from this petting zoo. This is one of those MOMENTS, when I trivialize the love of friends and trade it for playboy playing cards.

Music - my salvation could be in that, maybe. That production studio is offering me the student film “mediocrity” or the summer blockbuster “fever delirium”, said the thing with the three bonce. But it’s better than the The. Because music doesn't overtly talk about me, as this does. Burned out - on what? Can't remember, that part of my brain is burnt. But I remember these patterns, they penetrate through the fog, this isn't a new life, for christsake, I never fooled myself either, but if I had, I would have enjoyed the folly, I wish I'd tried harder, to fool myself.

Dreams, they're nightmares quite frequently these days. But they seem dreamy from this side, complexion like peaches and cream. Not greener, exactly. More like a sour spider-mother’s milk. Champax might make them even more vivid than they already are. I dunno if that’s a good thing. I can’t see, feel, or think destiny. Or free will, for that matter. Get through the moment, right, this is one of those MOMENTS. Yeah. And it’s hardly anything, really. I can get through it in any manner, the worst case scenario is not that bad. The best case scenario is not that good. In any case, I’m going to smoke an Export A.

Nightmares. Let’s have a look at that pool. Hand in hand. My brain is glitchy, still glitchy after 2 months of sobriety, seems more glitchy actually, my body's twitchy - but I'm in a position to notice the anomalies now, there's a baseline from which to judge - I'm far better off, sincerely, I wouldn't trade anything - but some nights I feel burned, quite so, so I write hoping for what? I don't even know anymore. And catch sight of Nicole Moore, a plankton I could go places with back in the day, when fangleyfish lit vision, not my vision, good god, I would hardly presume, it would be like cribbing buddha - neither true, nor funny.

Well, lesson 13, drugs don't inspire and neither does sobriety. Spontaneity isn't to be contrived through chemicals or fruitless attempts at making words rich quick - Don La Prie lied to me.

Davey Boy... twenty six years old. Counting his curses. Counting his curses.
Counting his curses. Counting his curses. Counting his curses. See, he did it five times, in his head, and this song’s in 5/4. That’s what we call an aesthetic. A pathetically fallacious aesthetic with enough truth to motivate a troop of neurons into voting, by a 54-46 margin, to going ahead and investing 0.02 percent of the gross cerebral product in the creation of a series of laboratories for the conducting of research in finding alternative methods to write a song called: “counting his curses”, in a 5/4 time signature. Sigh.

Don’t tell me you expect nothing
after – don’t
tell me that’s what you expect.