There's something about avocado green, burnt orange, and a goldenrod yellow that looks the same. Saturation? The 1970s? I like how the houses are painted up here. There's more color.

I don't know why I feel the need to define this. Phone writing is different. My phone, much like my mind, is small.

I feel a lot of social anxiety in the abstract, but then I get there and I'm fine. A lot of people are anxious at the function. Am I "coping ahead?" I don't think thats what Patrick meant by coping ahead.

There was the full flower moon casting on the river and the thick concrete gates holding up the highway overhead. Everyone was making fires and sitting in the dirt. There were oogles, real oogles with facetats and buttflaps. I've been worried that they're going away and we'll lose something annoying and important. The generator ran out of gas when someone plugged a drum machine in. It was cold, and a long walk to the spot. Heading back to the car, the punks behind us were freestyling: "I need a blunt and a bad bitch to pee on, they call me the Jewish anti Zionist Celine Dion."

Big mosh pots, where there's no space for all the specific hardcore moves. Just bouncing and shoving. There have been massive pyramids. NOLA is tearing this fest up. Not that it matters, but they're bringing the heat.

The world hasn't felt poetic lately. When I journal longhand I usually need to process something hard, and I regret that my journal sometimes seems like an angst catalogue and not a real record of how things are going. I don't feel called to write when I'm having a good time. Maybe that's this. Quick little hits in the moments between joy.