I don't want to be rugged as fuck.
And I don't want to be drunk all the time.
And I don't want to be sick anymore.
And I don't want to be boring.
And I do want to fucking write something.
And I Get it...  I really do. 
I Want to listen to Muse and Watch old David Bowie concert videos and new Artoons with computer graphics of robots and laser beams because those are the things that make me happy.
I want to live with epic things around me-- SMART epic things and not just lazy epic things with no forethought and all testosterone. 
I hate too much estrogen, though, too. 
Bitches, man, fucking bitches.
How about women and men?
I want women and men instead of boys and bitches.
I live in a weird gender neutral mind space that makes me not crazy like bitches but not stupid like boys with too many sperms in their balls trying to fuck everything with a pulse.
I wanna represent this mind process.  But how?
The great American generational movies have already been made.  This generation is encapsulated by "You just got served" which is even old now, too.  Maybe "Fast & The Furious 3"?  It's all dick measuring contest movies.
I want to make the "Pump up the volume" of now-- except i'm too old to preach high school angst, it just makes me a pretender..
But how do I combine my boner for music and film and art and literature and food and media in one package?  Is it possible?
I'm just not very cool, which is a problem...
But I get it!  I really do!!
Everyone feels this feeling in their guts-- I'm sure of it.
It's that swirling, pulsating, nagging push of inspiration and a feeling of superiority.
That lie in my head that tells me I'm capable of writing something good.
I read good books and see good movies and hear good songs and maintain a relationship with the way the world moves, and I think "I am capable of contributing to this".
But it's probably a delusional lie. 

I'm sick of watching people I love allow the world to destroy their spirit.  So much light has been lost to this adulthood bullshit, and it's really a fucking tragedy.  I am hoping so hard that I can get through all this-- live around it, and still maintain some personal integrity.  I hope to arrive at the door of death with some sort of grit in my teeth, and a beat up gait, but that light'll still be shining.  I want my eyes to glow like film projectors of knowledge and passion and experience.  I want to show up on purgatory's door (because, let's face it, I'm not evil enough for hell and not nice enough for heaven) Purging myself of all the vigor of my life in really good stories...

I need to eliminate the fear of externals, and create a healthy intolerance to bullshit, instead of swallowing everyone else's like a little bitch, which I do on the daily.

I need to capture my voice.  I talk and I spit and I snarl but I never hear my own voice.  I could just make noise, lots and lots of ruckus and noise, until something that feels right comes out...

I need to just fucking make something with my own hands, my own head, my own heart, without the externals and the tepidness of the fear of being judged.

Fuck the pisswater of this generation.  Fuck the sugarcoated, cock-filled, candy vomit of poular culture... Fuck it in that awkward, backseat, a little bit too aggressive, too many sips from the Fleischmann's bottle, lose your innocence kind of way. 

Make people feel dirty for all the sins of their bad taste.  Make the hipster kids who fall into the Pitchfork media jizzfest of new music made with synthesizers feel like the 80's rejects that they are.  Make them know that the emptiness of their music just serves to hollow out their guts and fill it with Scarves and hairspray, and predatory thoughts of buying more yellow sunglasses.  It automatizes them and they are faggots.  In the worst sense of the word because they are ugly and false and should be thrown in British fireplaces. 

All the hipster bullshit is foreplay for bad sex everyone tries to have with each other.  Except that it takes too long to get to the fucking because for every piece of clothing everyone peels off, they have to legitimize it by talking about the thrift store they bought it from, or the boutique in New York they ordered if from online.  By the time the hipster tease is complete, everyone is too whiskeydicked to take it all the way to penetration.

Fuck everyone who is too cool, fuck everyone who is too drunk, fuck everyone who is too beautiful, and fuck everyone who is too smart to be real.

Stop hiding behind your drunken haze and your stunner shadez and your Vonnegut books.  Get your fucking hair cut at Supercuts.  Buy your jeans at Sears.  Stick your dick in someone you actually like, instead of just the nearest warm hole with a Animal Collective T-shirt on.  Fuck you, just plain and simple.

I'm so disappointed in all the things I had hope for as a teenager, and how none of it panned out.  The Art kids i hung out with at UWM are now Riverwest kids.  They are horrible and self involved and self important and completely vapid.  Everyone else turned into Bay view hipsters that are much more low key, but they're just as full of it as anyone else. Including me.

I just want to kill pretension and meet people with no agenda. 

I want to say something intelligent about being passionately apathetic. 

This shouldn't be as difficult and infuriating as it is.

A Man in a fur hat fingers rosary beads while I find myself fingering an ipod cord.  
He smiles to himself periodically, mouths words to prayers.
I try desperately to stay still, breathe shallow.
I concentrate on the prayers of the music running through my skull.

"We'll never let you run.."

The stop line is pulled, a dull ding rings through the song in my ears.
Everyone on the bus ebbs forward, inertia pulling them and their loose necks to nod with physics.
The door opens, and a cool rush of night falls in.
A tattered man smiles at me, mouths something I can't hear through my headphones.

"Sometimes I'm so full of shit that it should be a crime.."

I pretend not to hear and he frowns.  
I concentrate on the prayers of the music running through my skull.
A woman rocks a baby carriage back and forth, lips pursed, I can only imagine she's humming.
The stop line is pulled, a dull ding rings through the song in my ears.

"There's a light in the window that reminds me of heaven..."

What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on the bus?
Wouldn't it be a delicious Irony..  
Tryin' to make his way home?
I try and sync myself with the rolling vibration of the behemoth.  
I Fight Inertia. Science fails as I feel the push.

The Stop line is pulled, a dull ding rings through the song in my ears.

"All this tension back and forth, it's just the beauty of the ride..."

The world is easier to bear when you've insulated yourself in the false pretense of music.
The sad man with tears in his eyes.
The woman eating saltine crackers from individual serving packages.
The small child, huddled under his mother's coat.
The man in a fur hat fingering his rosary beads.

The stop line is pulled, a dull ding rings through the song in my ears.

"So tell me this.. How do you plan to survive... I don't know.. So many miles from home so many to go.  I count the lines and the signs on the side of the road. How do you keep your head straight? I don't.  I'm moving up to the city of sound.  I don't get much but I get around. They call my number when I leave the line.. I'm always looking for a good time.  Trying to keep my feet off the ground.."

Hi friends.

It's exactly one week until one of the most important elections in recent history. I think it's really, really, really important for everyone to vote in this election, and while of course, I'd love for everyone to vote Obama, I understand that's not the right choice for everyone based on personal beliefs.

However, I think it is vital that as a voter, you're informed, and well aware of all your options.

First of all, here are all of the candidates running for president, as they will appear on a Milwaukee County Ballot, and links to their official websites:

Barack Obama: http://www.barackobama.com/ (Democrat)
John McCain: http://www.johnmccain.com/ (Republican)
Cynthia McKinney: http://votetruth08.com/ (Green)
Bob Barr: http://www.bobbarr2008.com (Libertarian)
Brian Moore: http://www.votebrianmoore.com/ (Socialist)
Gloria La Riva: http://www.pslweb.org/site/PageServer?pagename=votepsl_home (Socialist)
Ralph Nader: http://www.votenader.org (Independent)
Chuck Baldwin: http://www.baldwin08.com (Constitution Party)
Jeffery J. Wamboldt: http://www.vote-smart.org/bio.php?can_id=110766 (We The People Party)


Secondly, if you are a Wisconsin resident, and are unsure of your voting place, please follow this link, it will give you all the info you need:

http://vpa.wi.gov/

Please take the time to educate yourself on the issues. I would prefer you research the candidates and chose the one that falls as closely as possible to your beliefs, then not vote at all. It's lazy, irresponsible and foolish to waste one of the fundamental rights of our country.

We stand at the cusp of a momentous time of our nation's history. Issues like The Environment, Health Care, The Economy, and War are top on the list of issues that serves to dictate the next generation, and we have the chance now to make our voices heard and protect them.

Never has a decision impacted our children (born or yet-to-be) more.

Please Educate yourself on the issues. Please read these websites. Please avoid political pundits. Please dis-regard partisan propaganda. Make this decision for yourself, because in life-- this is one of the few you're REALLY allowed to make.

Good luck, and now you have no excuse to be ill-informed, I've done all the leg work for you!

Love, now and forever till the end of time,

Mrr Brr

Winter is creeping in, and I don't remember it feeling this cold. There's a familiarity in the taste of cigarettes in the chill, the feeling of icy fingertips, the comfort in a hot cup of tea. I'm acquainted with the wistfulness in this time of year. Seasonal depression, or the doldrums, whatever you want to call it, always finds me when the leaves fall from the trees and lay crunchy on the ground. I'm susceptible to isolating myself when the feelings wind their way in, and I just think.. I think about beauty, and How It seems like I'm on an unending path to search for it.

I reach and I yearn for someting to plant itself in my brain-- some seed of acknowledgment that makes all this wondering thought mean something. I find myself feeling emptier this time of year. Inspired by the emptiness, looking for something to fill it. Art-- Love-- Sex-- Music-- Connection-- Literature-- Cinema-- I consume it en masse, gluttonous for any of it to click in me.

I used to fill this emptiness with alcohol when all of these sensory consumptions failed, and the booze warmed the cool fall breeze swirling inside my guts. Flush with aimless drunken numbness, I could fall asleep at night. But these days, I'm not drinking. And I find that being left with the singularity of myself and my very sharp thoughts is peculiar and potentially harmful. I think in absoloutes these days. The grey areas of late, sleepless drunken binges are lost, and I find myself stuck in endless trains of thought, driving me to no destination in particular.

So I've found myself smoking myself into submission.. Ideas completely disappear from my mind under the haze, and I can usually find dreamless sleep. But there's a personal guilt in it. Every time I smoke, I feel the emptiness, the hole in me deepen, the smoke fills it in a purely aesthetic way. It wafts, clears, and I wake up groggy in the morning fully aware that I've wasted feelings, wasted potential thought. There's the internal struggle in me to decide if the temporary solace from thought is worth possibly missing my moment of true inspiration.

I always hope i'm clever enough to figure this all out, but I always worry I'm too complicated to see the answers present themselves. Am I too wrapped up in this shit to see the seeds of inspiration planted all around me? I find profound thoughts in the stupidest things and dismiss myself as sentimental, cliche, but what if those seemingly silly things are the things that should be stirring the most in me?

I've realized lately-- most recently as a sober person, that companionship and love is frightening. For years I found myself getting all mixed up in fumbling, awkward and self deprecating situations with people I have nothing sensible or solid in common with--except that we both tasted like alcohol, that our tongues mixed around and made delicious, hazy mistakes. mistakes that just dug that hole even deeper.

These days, I realize that I may be too socially stunted, too useless to ever find something meaningful. And i've come to terms with that. I'd like to be in a relationship-- to love someone and yet I realize that I'm incapable of being loved right now. I wouldn't know how to be loved. I can love with all my person, extend every emotional limb, and love someone in total, but to be loved-- it just feels impossible. I have no idea how to open myself up, to be real, to talk with certainty and honesty about myself, and the idea of someone seeing me for every ugly thing i'm made of is terrifying. I would carry your burden, but never expose you to mine. And until I can sift through that, I'm useless to anyone else. I would be a mess of pleas for patience, and it's so unfair to ask anyone to be that patient.

So Tonight, I find myself feeling way too much, all at once, somehow feeling that the wind and the cold and the sound of crunching leaves are important, all of these things helping dictate my thoughts. I'm contemplating staying up, thinking some more, laying in bed letting my mind wander on these unending steel tracks of thought, never arriving in the station of resolution, or smoking myself into a shell, insulating myself from thought, or function, and finding myself in the morning with that guilt-- could I have had the epiphany if I wasn't high? Is solid, dreamless sleep worth turning the volume down to zero?

Television seems pointless. I pay $80 a month for CNN, which is the only thing I watch anymore, and I leave it on mute for hours while reading, listening to those songs that make my guts all twisty, and I'll look over periodically to see if the world is still there. I leave the news on to prove that i'm not really just dead in hell, alone, and that it could be worse. My house could be swept away in great floods, earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, bombs dropping from far away planes in the sky.. I could be sleeping under a desert sky in a country that isn't my own, crying for the thoughts that I could die right now if someone with a truck full of Explosives decided that he wasn't as afraid of death as I was. I could be shipped home in a pine box wrapped in an apology flag. I could be dead.

I'm not dead, and I'm feeling vigorously alive, if only internally.

I keep getting these urges to better myself, physically, mentally, and I keep finding that my resolve is wrapped closely with my indifference. It's amazing how I can so passionately want to be better, and yet how I can sit here, night after night, just thinking. It's like my brain and my body are two things-- alien to one another and unsure of how to co-exist. I always find myself stuck on the word "better". How the nature of the word itself implies no ultimate goal. One level, increments subjective, higher than where you were. But never reaching "best". There is no best-- only better.

There's the circular thoughts that end in absolutes!

I find a fair amount of wit in absolutes, and try to follow my thought processes to them as much as possible, because when I reach some conclusion, some absolute idea, a goal, what seems to be an answer; It always makes me immensely sad and then ask more questions of the train of thought.

I wish I were good at math, because in math there are answers, indisputable, to be found and to prove. But of course, my mind works in theoretics, and on the assumption that I feel these feelings, I am, for some cosmic, external reasoning. Or the complete opposite? Some core, minute, internal resolution that can only be found when following the proper steel railed theoretic train of thought to the ultimate station of self...?

And then I'm left with the new questions-- Why the fuck does what I feel matter? The things I have to say, the feelings I feel, the thoughts I think, The external moments of life I deem to be important in some immeasurable fraction, could potentially be worthless.

And this is why I sit alone at night-- In an apartment filled with books and music and cable television that stays pretty constantly on CNN, to try and fucking understand what i'm doing. Trying to decide whether it matters, trying to hide this insecurity of being from anyone else, so I don't plant some secret seed of doubt in a poor unsuspecting person. Because jesus christ, I could never live with myself if I passed this like a flu to another brain

With all this talk of tomorrow being the end of the world, I'm beginning to wonder....

Should I have done more with my night than Make Biscuits and Watch Dexter?

The piano has been drinking.

In other news, I'm a sucker who is too honest. I rarely lie. And in life, the honest suckers get licked.

I've been having this overwhelming feeling of dread, stress and claustrophobia lately. A feeling of being trapped inside.

Working a 9-5 is fine, but I just sometimes feel like it's killing me. I feel like i'm wasting the potentially best time of my life. There are so many things... So many many many things I want to be doing with myself, and none of those things are possible when I have bills to pay and shit to do.

I watched 'The Devil and Daniel Johnston' last night, and in a weird, fucked up way, I was jealous of the prolific artistic devastation. I sometimes wish that I could let the artistic vision take over completely and just create. Let there be nothing else to get in the way of the creation, the inspiration, the instinct. In a way, I envy the writers who are incapable of anything BUT the words. I envy the artists who can't do anything BUT the art. The musicians who live the music and nothing else.

My brother and I talked about a dream we have-- To rent a studio space, and fill it with art supplies and musical instruments and recording equipment. Oh-- and a killer stereo. (for inspiration, of course) A place to just explore creativity.. It's become abundantly clear that I have waaay too much art shit for this smallish apartment. I want to get my drafting table from my parents' house, but there's nowhere to put it. I need a whle organized closet like I had at my parent's... Full of supplies and music. Magazines, paint, pencils, markers, glue, xactos, pastels, Records, CDs... He would bring his growing instrument collection (I think he has 2 mini organs, 2 guitars, a bass, an accordion, a keyboard, and like 20 smaller instruments... and the 4 track machine he has.

It's really cool to hear what he comes up with. He is super, super talented, and can play anything he picks up. I sorta interrogated him last night, and asked if there's anything he thought he couldnt play, and his response was "I'm pretty sure I can figure just about anything out.. It wont be perfect, and I have zero 'technique', but I can make it make the sounds I want for the desired effect.." He is the really talented one.

I'm artistic, and doing art stuff makes me happy, but a lot of the time I doubt myself. Steve never does-- he plays instruments, writes songs, and can do anything.


I kinda wanna just lock myself in the apartment for a week with some dope, amazing music, and a lot of art supplies. see what happens.

I've come to realize that art in all its forms are less than tools. Merely representations of ideas and ideals truly inexpressable.

There is irony in all expression, becuase it is not what it wants to be.

Everything contains an element of wit, intentional or not, becuase it's all a farce. A costumed version of the inspiration. Repackaged and consumed, to be shat as another version of the same, now dilluted experession.

Reflections in a glassy surface.

Depending on the light-- warped and clouded. Shadows. Or clear and shining bright.

But it is a flatness. An untouchable attempt at evocation. A chain of heavy hearts, eating the remnants left behind.

You look and you hear, and you consume it. It fills every crevice of the insides, and creates a disjointed collage of feelings and images new only becuase they are made of peices of things that already exist.

There are only 26 letters in the american language. But somehow, in some conglomeration, we make those 26 letters mean everything. Which in turn makes them mean absoloutley nothing.

Our bodies are a mess of protrusions and holes. Big holes and little holes. Folicles and Mouths. With purposes pre-determined by nature. You are the result of a protrusion and a hole. But these simple biological processes are excited and made to function under the influence of stimulation. Simplicity just doesn't exist within us. But there is no classification for the obscene amount of information we intake and output, and it all just sits, piled and disconnected from meaning until that one instance or recognition clicks in, and something means something

I'm inspired so intensely, but nothing is true, because truth is the most subjective thing of nature. We assign ourselves affiliations and titles and jobs to feel a comfort in belonging. But to belong is to surrender from the complications of nature. We amuse ourselves in synthetic conflict and the black and white. But that's just not the absoloute of being. There is a solace in it, but never a soloution. Ends do not exist. There will always be. Someting will always exist, whenther in abstract or in function.

"There is no politics..."
"Then what is there?"
"...Sign Language"

I had a dream that I lived in an end-of-the-world situation, where people had divided into factions, all believing in something, and I belonged to the group who believed in nothing. We occupied a small college campus building, with a large top floor terrace with a balcony surrounding it. The top floor of this building had been turned into a bar and it was seedy. Everyone believed that life is fucked, but it's the only thing we had, so we would just get fucking wasted and take turns standing guard on the balcony, shooting tresspassers and drinking more. When you got too fucked up to shoot, someone took your spot. Everyone fucked and smoked and it rained hot sand. Everything was covered in a fine layer of spilled beer and soot.

It's how I hope the end of the world will be. United fuckery.

That is all.

Sometimes i feel like soloutions lie in a kiss. Like if I were just to lean over and kiss whoever was in pain, the pain and problems would dissapear.

Eyes closed, Fingers buried in hair, Kissing.....

Like when you were six, and you bumped your knee. Your mother would come over, kiss it, and somehow, make it better.

I feel like If I were to kiss your pain away, It would be the most sublime cure.


I can't remember the last time I kissed with feeling. I haven't meant it in years. The only kisses I give lately are fervent, fuck me kisses that serve as filler before I get to the empty encounter. All tongues, no intent except to act as a prologue to a story i'll regret.

What happened to my passion? What happened to my hope for love?

I see so much lying, masquerading, deceiving in people lately that my hope seems to have died slowly.

My idealist inner romantic is always horrified and surprised to hear the terrible, selfish, heartless things people can do and say to one another in the name of romance and pleasure. Has it always been this way and I've just never seen it? Am I the only romantic left?

Becuase the meaningless sex drains the life out of me. Hearing people talk about hurting others without any regard makes me physically nauseus. Lying infuriates me. And seeing someone hurting just makes me want to kiss their pain away. All of the idealism and hope, I can only pray it's infectious..

I woke up this afternoon and Josh had already cleaned up from the party that we had last night. All that's left to do is the dishes, which is just a bunch of cups that smell like different flavors of booze. My head's still pounding and my memory's close to non existant for the last two hours I was awake. There's a little reminder of my night, scrawled in a message on the dry erase board.

"Mary's drunk and horny, and won't go to bed..."

I had a moment last night that lingered for a lot longer than I intended it to.. It was one of those moments that makes everything feel good again, but fucks you up. It wasn't a solid instant, it was a collection of happenings...

It was the smell of zippo fire and a freshly lit cigarette. It was the smell of the night, cool and making goosebumps gather on the back of my neck. It was the sharp repetitive click of a left turn signal. It's the swirls of streetlights and cell phone screens, whirring past as we drove. It's lyrics to songs..

Lyrics that hit me in the gut as soon as they left the sterio speakers..

"Something dies when you grow older, but you do the best you can..."

Lyrics that with another listen, reveal something new...

"And so three cheers for my morose and grieving house
And now let's hear it for the tears that I've welled up
We've come too far to have to give it all up now
We live lives that are rich and blessed
And we'll burn for how we've transgressed"

It's feelings I probably shouldn't have....

That chilly breeze is coming through the windows again, hitting me in the back, making me shiver something fierce, and my fingers feel like ice. It looks so deceptively lovely out there, and it's cold. My shivering might also be my body telling me to drink a glass of water, to try and repair that damage i did last night with seven or eight mixed drinks and a handfull of shots. I drank so much to drown out the little bit of wistfulness in my heart.

I'm just kamplukatid. Everything is Kamplukatid.

I'm happy, I'm comfortable. I'm living the life I always wanted, and yet, there's always a nagging little voice in the back of my head that reminds me that there are things I can't have. Things that will never happen.

It's disgusting how happy I am in this moment. There are few things in the world more comfy than darkness and headphones. Complete solitude. The right song bleeding into your head, swimming around, finding its way down your spine, sending those shivers.

Fuck drugs. I don't need 'em. I need this feeling right now, right this moment, to last forever.

There's the slight bitterness of beer on my lips. A tightening of my throat when I inhale cigarette smoke.

I'm trying to ignore the thoughts in my head..
Those reminders of the coming work week and all the tasks ahead of me... But then, there's a great deal of pride in knowing what I've accomplished in the last month of my life. I'm signing an advertisement deal with Rock 102.1 this week, and it's one of the coolest, most important things i've ever done.

I don't know who thought I could handle this, but thank you to them for putting me in a place to find that I am capable... Every day is a new challenge, a new distressing hurdle, and something to learn.

I looked at my bank account today, and wrote a rent check.. And I'm still okay. It's the weirdest thing.

I keep waking up thinking I'll wake up back at my parent's house, broke, and hungover. Miserable. But Each morning the sun comes through my blinds, I make breakfast in my kitchen, and I go to my real grown up job. My new life is real, and it's wonderful.

Happiness is weird.

I'm sitting in my apartment, alone in the mostly darkness. My roomates are out at the bar, one of them is bartending, and the other one is babysitting friends with drinking problems. I've been in various states of Pajamas all day, with periodic moments of hunger, thirstiness, nausea and headache from drinking too much last night. We managed to entertain 12 people in the apartment last night, keep everyone fed and drunk except for the straight edge kid who doesn't apparently mind being surrounded by idiots. No one called the cops. Which was a sincere surprise. I have a sink full of dishes wating to be washed and zero motivation to touch them.

It smells amazing in here right now.. A scented candle that smells like passion fruit is burning, and the window next to me is open. It's been raining for a while now, and the cool, thick breeze is coming in through the window. It smells like wet iron and earth.

There's thunder. Lightning. My cigarette smoke is drifting in and out of the window, dissapating. I smell like lilac body wash and apricot face wash. Garden-y. Soft. I'm not wearing a bra.

I don't know why any of these details are important, but at this moment, they are. Everything in this moment is mine. Every move I make in my life is mine.

Saturday night I was filled with a lot of anger, and right as i drifted off into an uncomfortable, stuffy, hot sleep, my phone rang with more bad news. I laid in the dark for a few minutes and then wandered into the pitch black dining room, sat down and lit a cigarette. I watched my neighborhood at 3am, and it was still. Silent. The wind wasn't even blowing. Then, in the dark soupy night, a limousine pulled up to the house across the street. A drunk woman in a red party dress got out right under a street lamp, and she glowed. She laughed once as she stumbled to her door, alone, and i watched her travel through her house by following the switches she flipped on.

I imagined she took her shoes off in the foyer, and stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water, or another glass wine. A few seconds passed before the upstair hallway light clicked on, and then the front bedroom. I would bet that she took off the dress and left it in a pile on the floor of her walk-in closet. She'll most likely take it to the cleaners on monday anyways, so a few wrinkles won't matter. She probably passed out, face down on her bed in her underwear, and in the heat of the night, it probably felt amazing.

I thought about my life. I thought about the big scratch on my arm, and i put my cigarette out in the ashtray. I wished I could sleep naked, but then realized, for the sake on my roomates, I probably shouldn't...I wandered back to my bed and pressed play on my CD player. I went to bed hearing....

"Well I don't know what I'm looking for
But I know that I just wanna look some more
And I won't be satisfied
'Till there's nothing left that I haven't tried
For some people it's an easy choice
But for me there's a devil and an angel's voice
Well I don't know what I am looking for
But I know that I just wanna look some more "