sudden vicious craving for a synapse-burning cigarette, or rather a small cigar to help my conscience, because it would taste and smell better. "when I get so lonesome I can't speak." but I won't do it. I know I won't give in because my heart would stop at first puff or fire. a lighter or matches to keep it more 'organic' I've heard. if you call the shots I'll call bullshit.
In the shade of the law. Small trees, red on the top, a black-speckled gradient to yellow at the bottom and then the trunk. There is a radius of fallen leaves at the base that the wind whips around. I'm placed in a tunnel of sorts, my back to the wind. A lot of empty chairs for decision making. Knowledge to my right. harrowing details of exotic adventures from places we've never been and perhaps never will go. there is simply not enough time to travel everywhere in existence. Don't you know how many perspectives there are in a jail cell? Plenty.
Sounded bummed on the phone and outside of reality. There have been no spoken words for quite awhile and everything turns to dust. helpless waste of a day. maybe not, truly. why would it make a difference for me to go to an art museum as opposed to cleaning my room and watching a mars volta concert? I killed spiders to avoid a freak out from my sister who will be arriving on thanksgiving with my parents. the bathroom still smells damp like a cave. unavoidable. I can't find the source. insomnia sparked up this solution to good health. it is simple to psych yourself out and have a blessed day of rest and bible-engulfing. eat every page and maintain perfect clarity. try it. gathered up all of the empty bottles that emptied me. recycle them and never feel so inadequate and useless than not knowing which bin to put them in. I thought I did it right but I came back it was all reorganized. I'm thinking my land lord is a perfectionist or has a case of obsessive compulsive disorder. (watering the walkway?). though I heard blood curdling screaming last night. at what point would I intervene? the point it no longer sounds like a family dispute and begins to sound like battery or murder. good place to enter the conversation.
ignore grammatical rules. I know them, surely. but this is about content rather than perfect execution. this is a jam session much like the 'incorrect' notes during a long psychedelic night with guitar in hand at the foot of the bed. 'your feet are on my bed' masked off. they charted off part of the road for re-paving or movie shooting, photo shoots and flashing lights of lenses, and I had to detour around the neighborhood. in my vehicle feeling sheepish. foolish.
in one single day how often do you feel foolish?
why bother with that sensation? this is it, folks. no need to feel unprepared. we are all under-prepared. there are huge gaping mistakes in our every action and history will not mind. in a small sense at least.
