Wipe the electric blank slate clean. There is a rising fire behind me and to the right. It grows in light and volume each second, rising to meet the cadence assigned by the refrigerator and Roscoe traffic. Rising to meet the energy demands.
Realize the necessity to edit.
"... there may or may not be an audience. If not, at least, the audience will be your future self. The applauding or booing crowd will be your future, tmore experienced, more knowledgable self. Some self that will look back on past similarities in order to compare them to the present with intention to analyze the events to predict any semblance of the future. It may or may not work, but it gives your eventual self an eventual chance to redeem your self. You might witness the observable effort given to the losing-the-battle art; the geriatric battlements and persuasive canopies of controlled and directed thought conveyed through words carved out with mother tongues." - Indian Guru Accent, with traditional sankrit fusion music and garb.
My inner dialogue was translated through my synapses into English but their external language was inhaled through my lungs and my ears into something less recognizable. I know it not to be gibberish because I know there to be construction all the same. The sounds are made by different voice boxes, different DNA and sentence structure, inviting the ears to perk up at the rhythm, at least, of rising and falling cadence. I enjoyed listening and can advocate the structure of such a language in which the locals will always be able to point out your accent if you learn the grammar. The locals will stare at you. They will sharpen spears and sentence ends.
Desire to view the world as a whole.
Doors open policy into how bad I feel.
Here is the belief in stubborn pursuit laid out sideways. It is 2:21 AM on Tuesday, September 17th and the smirnoff ghost from days of high school intoxication returns in a blue and turquoise shroud of tapestry curtain The bindings snap and come loose.
We are left in a dazzled daze of enlightenment. With my multiple personalities and my girlfriend. There are words spread out between us like a double entendre, bread and butter, red wine and a lover, and we've only got our selves to blame.
Elements in our eyes and veins cemented this. Despite all odds and sordid convictions, we will not allow our selves to implode. There is an understanding so pure. There is an amount of time spent fully focused on the eyes of another. There is... (fearful interruption of thought. loud roommates, we where, in past and present tense, the flushing of a porcelain toilet.)
Sleeping with another cold human being on a chilly night is rather nice.
Hot chocolate and coffee with kahlua.
There will be streamers and glitter in our hair.
I sit down and hear the noises of one hundred thousand crickets, the stomach groveling for more, the music selected by a sleeping beauty and the sleepy television shows enjoyed by the vacant, highlight reel minds that seek power in numbers and crowds themselves in with slamming doors. Their torsos eroded like sea pilings.
Distant cars traveling sounds vaguely like ocean waves crashing. At least in the sense of a perpetual recognizable sound. The battery of a shoreline during a hurricane, if it were a smaller battle at the scale model size of ants and an ant battalion.
Evil boys take out their microscopes in the jealous worship of the sun.
The sun god.
No gloomy evergreen rain for us if we desire eternal salvation.
Conspiracies and cross examinations. Meeting meteorites in head on collisions and hear music through the floor. The decisions of a lost consciousness.
Next to the girl, the sleeping beauty, all will be lost, gracefully lost. All thoughts will evaporate a brain into mist, just to appease the 7th year of regenerated skin cells, combined into a new alternative to the present.
All other layers will slough off unless you write them down.
