i wanted to find some goddamn English tea. i don't even know what that exactly means, but i feel the need for 'made in England' on the packaging. I go to 5 different stores, in 2 towns, and with each new failure i feel sicker. in me, i'm close to slamming the pasta-sauce bottle into the tile; here in store 4, i'm screaming out from vicsiousness. This needing and not ever having. A self breaking, in an airless yell. All of this having to do with brown hair and a new life, in an old world. The same story that still really hurts when your in it. And I put myself there, instead of any real life. In playing with lies, there's a loosening of my forehead. A sense of at-ease when I close my eyes to that image. And clarity of what I really want follows. The exact girl, town, voice, and an actual smiling love of life. But this place of myth-self, I can't get there? It exists, it could exist, but it won't. And since that will ne'er fucking happen, not even a fraction, at least let me find the goddamn tea. But i can't, and that makes sense.