i was happy

indeed i was

as i hadn't been since the last days of may, i believe. so i couldnt write anything much

just static

how odd is that. happiness leaves me no expression. i can tug the heartstrings of people but i cant give them a smile to share my own

some pretentious git said that art never comes from happiness

but accepting that might mean that i am equally pretentious in assuming that this, whatever it is, is art. which i doubt. but i don't, really. it is some sort of pride. my words float in the ether and some catch on

(but one writes because one must. samuel said so to paul in those long talks facing the seine. it is imperative)

that isn't happiness either. a shadow, perhaps.

be joyful and joyful