my nomenclature is distraught often, but there are frequent omissions of truth which have to be held close, like a marmot or spinach dish. think! for the love of noodles and other great things in this world, imagine for a moment, suspended in time, there you are.
it's been quite established that the schizophrenic do not assemble without regard for decorum, but the reality is that in spite of such efforts, things can and do occur in the typical space occupied at any given moment.
consider! she has several tattoos of sushi strung about her arm, and something resonates - was it her artwork? she was a pool of images - here, there, and somewhat stoned. in spite of all this, the truth soaked itself forward unto me, and there she was. an embodiment of several disparate entonations, she was manifest that which i held close. if all i get is just that moment in time (and i believe that is not the end of it) then something definitely happened last night. we laughed. we drank jaeger. we smoked. we spoke in terms of the unbounded. and did i mention we laughed?
her manner and voice reminds me of her. she could have legally changed her name, been in hiding, waiting for the right moment to encounter me again. when i think that and then actually believe it possible the inevitable happens. i become putty - distracted by all the sound and colors - but i think nonetheless, wondering how far to take it all.
merely doomed to fall in love with the artist girl? if so, no complaints thus far. i have been magnanimous - but in the sphere which i call existence, there has been little to be had in return. the uninspired are not my realm. they can have their cokeheads and other such cheap thrills. but here there lies mr. nothing, spacious and void, knowing not what there is beyond. simply put, if it's to be, then it shall. otherwise, just a whimper in the darkness right before i go to sleep, telling me she loves me, then changing her mind and snoring above my chest.
such is not the signal - such is not the true way. i prefer the interactive, the macabre, and the bizarre. but not to the point where i'll be wearing a condom in athens if there's an unsightly fool, finding out her worldview is wrong somewhere on 12th street.
whatever, man. to be told that to write for myeslf is completely irrelevant to the passerby, is a false construct made by the self-conscious and those without self-confidence. breathe what you will - the lungs contract and implode automagically or with some infused desire. choose appropriately.
it's been quite established that the schizophrenic do not assemble without regard for decorum, but the reality is that in spite of such efforts, things can and do occur in the typical space occupied at any given moment.
consider! she has several tattoos of sushi strung about her arm, and something resonates - was it her artwork? she was a pool of images - here, there, and somewhat stoned. in spite of all this, the truth soaked itself forward unto me, and there she was. an embodiment of several disparate entonations, she was manifest that which i held close. if all i get is just that moment in time (and i believe that is not the end of it) then something definitely happened last night. we laughed. we drank jaeger. we smoked. we spoke in terms of the unbounded. and did i mention we laughed?
her manner and voice reminds me of her. she could have legally changed her name, been in hiding, waiting for the right moment to encounter me again. when i think that and then actually believe it possible the inevitable happens. i become putty - distracted by all the sound and colors - but i think nonetheless, wondering how far to take it all.
merely doomed to fall in love with the artist girl? if so, no complaints thus far. i have been magnanimous - but in the sphere which i call existence, there has been little to be had in return. the uninspired are not my realm. they can have their cokeheads and other such cheap thrills. but here there lies mr. nothing, spacious and void, knowing not what there is beyond. simply put, if it's to be, then it shall. otherwise, just a whimper in the darkness right before i go to sleep, telling me she loves me, then changing her mind and snoring above my chest.
such is not the signal - such is not the true way. i prefer the interactive, the macabre, and the bizarre. but not to the point where i'll be wearing a condom in athens if there's an unsightly fool, finding out her worldview is wrong somewhere on 12th street.
whatever, man. to be told that to write for myeslf is completely irrelevant to the passerby, is a false construct made by the self-conscious and those without self-confidence. breathe what you will - the lungs contract and implode automagically or with some infused desire. choose appropriately.
oryon:
dayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyum