Damn, Boston is loud. I'm in a fucking hotel and can hear the party-goers drunken shouts outside. Why am I not with them? Because I'm in isolation.
(Even though I cheated and went to the gym).
While in this city, I've been writing a book. A biography, you might say. Or, a bunch of random fucked up memories, stories, experiences, pictures, poetry, drawings, dreams, screams. In general, is it about me and my life, written in the only way I know how - art.
I'm really not egotistical. But, this book is already fucking awesome.