seven tabs - past is history, future's a mystery - butterscotch, seven tabs, here now
Werther's Original, new blogger posting window, hitting the tab key seven times to cycle through the menu options to finally arrive at the posting window - feeling guilty, angsty, weak, bored, melancholic, ill-humoured, lazy, sucking on a werther's, pleasing flavour while providing a synesthetic map of tooth decay, quiet, thinking about being in a moment where the angst is only a product of living outside the moment, thinking of the saying that often annoys me, but playing at wielding it as a defense against anxieties, thinking, fuck it, focus on the werther's, which is nothing special, but kind of nice this second, and writing about it as cryptic fragments, and then explaining those fragments for the novelty of it, and burying posts that seem like noisy outposts of halloween shindigs in the asshole of the world, one of many
heard too much about anesthetics today, observed myself getting caught up in the details of medical history, something of note, made mental notes, arrived at this point, nothing special, an outpost, a tower in the forest, light on, wireless connection strong
a guy finished his practicum, whatever that means, i'm still not entirely sure... thinking about being closer to where they manufacture and distribute substances that would tie off this life, staunch bleeding, blood backup, back to the source, medusa and medula and lackluster lucidity cordoned off - an amusing attempt at an italian accent - quietness - i could learn to love the moment rather than ogle it in a sneaky darting snatch-glance, too bad about the learning disability - but i have this theory about how an amazing deluge of energy could flood into me from some unknown source once i'm free of this academic obstacle course i feel a compulsion to ace - that ship sailed, but hey, the whiny godvoice nags, you've still got the lifeboat, you can make it to port in a reasonable timeframe, so get rowing, but i think, there's probably an island pretty close to here, i don't have to cross a goddamn ocean, i dunno if i even like that port, it's nothing but rum-runners, but the island, i could imagine a life there
but careful there bourgeous-to-be, living for the future, remember the guy who's son broke his leg and his neighbors said, oh, too bad, and he replied, maybe...