heavy lids, gordian knots

sitting empty, as jenn said, about her journal - this calls for extreme measures - a stretch of limbs that'll congregate in holy matrimony between earth and sky, a neverending parabola, a zeno's paradox of whatever that feeling is you get when you stretch for lack of anything better to do, a quadratic equation mostly

or maybe the extreme measure of filling up a wall with words, or more appropriately, a column, or several columns that fill the first foyer of a temple, floor to ceiling pictographic scrawl, it looks pictographic enough to me, even within the helvetica contours of digital stencils

or maybe the peaceful co-existence with megafauna, when they're never out of season, but the season is slow-paced, and we don't take so many of them down that they die out, cause god doesn't care for those big beasts, poor things, even if i do, but not enough to be an activist, like a friend of mine

it certainly comes back to heavy lids and the waiting for miracles... what is the prognosis, cocaine psychosis? no, can't be that, but it might be synthetic, could be this chemical or that, could be laundry detergent, cell phone radiation, mercury poisoning - and okay, could be psychological, cause if i can get perked up from the chronic recline of the damned by the simple thought that i could slash through the lethargy by doing something bad, really bad, but oh so fun, then the body is the brain's bitch in that case, isn't it?

well, that's whot itis, and coodn't be any tis'n'ter