I live in a town.
This shitty town happens to be full of hicks and wanna be gangsters.
And I’ve come to realize there are not very many intellectual people here.
I’m still not entirely sure why we moved here from the beach (Malibu, more specifically). But, it makes me depressed.
I have plenty of books to release. Problem is the town. I live in a shitty town full of bastards who torture books because they make them think for once.
I live in a shitty town, where people burn books because they find it fun to watch someones time and thoughts burn to nothing more than a black delicate bird.
I live in a shitty town, where people wouldn’t enjoy a nice book they found god knows where. They would take it, and abuse it. They would rip it from it’s binding. And tear it from the covers.
And it’s this shitty town that I live in, that makes me so sad. Because I can’t ever participate in something I want to. Only because of the stupidity around me.
And I will just keep these beautiful books to myself, if they cannot, will not, and never will appreciate them for as wonderful and amazing as they are.
