these days i find speech unnecessary. the tangible touch is a bit pointless too. why would i search for something when entertainment can elicit an incomparable reaction? my only passion is across the pond and probably existing without a thought for me - and if truth be truth, i discovered that i cannot write at home. there’s too much tranquility, a soothing submersion of morphine waves. i wake up in comfort, in sweats and oversize tshirts and stay this way for days. the only thing that excites me on a physical level of desire is what i’m going to eat next, like condensed milk on toast.