a moment of weirdness - rusty gears, fucking fusty musty RUSTY gears, oh man, grinding - the ridiculous cycles, paralysis, grinding giggling noise of nothing but...
now thinking about not having the strength for this and that, and failing so miserably as an addict, and dawning awareness that maybe i should be offended, deeply offended, and react aggressively, aggressively commit slow but accelerating suicide... but nah, whether fake or real, there's a better way to live and cultivate appropriate things to be proud of
ugh, what's this shit, journaling? poetry? nah, not quite, neither fish nor fowl, more like soliloquy but less Shakespearean - a bland steady pulse-pattern of cardboard noise in semiquavers under experimentation with polonaise, the plastic version - gold dust in a puddle, runon rivulets of melodic fragments - and then covers, reflections, refraction
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channeling easy mode
Sometimes I fade, like Bod . Then proceed to get away with things. Stealing time, treating myself. To a glorified journal entry. This pigmy...
2 comments:
"cultivate appropriate things to be proud of"
I wonder what color thumb you'd need for that. Because I sure don't have a green one, and now I feel like I have been missing out on other colors too.
maybe they're grey, like mine - you got the silicon implants, right?
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