So where am I now? Where is my place? I spend my weekends playing with friends, wondering when it will all end. My weekends pass like minutes. My weekdays like miles. I’d marry any beautiful girl if all she offered was unending liquour and a gracious frown. I want to just. Be. I want to just. Feel. Like I told you in a text, “I’m always going to be a Charlie and you’re always going to be a Sam.”

It’s true. I’ve never deserved true companionship. I got stoned or drunk around you, secretly, too many times to warrant that. All I deserve is my crutches and my velocity. We speed across the universe at so many miles per hour. But I couldn’t accept that as I grabbed your thighs and hit the gas, skidding across the ice and snow in the Ohian New Year.

I’m moving to Brazil, New York, Paris, London, and Minsk. I’m not fucking sitting around anymore, wondering where these years have gone. I’ll punch my face before I punch the wall. And I’ve broken a lot of dry wall in my day.

Photo by; Matia Theodosakis

Model; mary scott