9:02 am
history mends itself over a glass of scotch or the joint smoked in a cherry blossom tree imported from a japanese seed factory or the red brick and a mess of various architectures and styles conforming to nowhere specific and the avant grade structures like a bike tire bow and arrow strung together with video tape all stretched out, film I mean, and the wavering small white flags, ripped and tattered, in a circular formation off center, some smart camouflage of a grander idea born of the ahaggar mountains or the gulf of oman, the foreign artistry when no one seems to get it... four pink flags, back lit and colored by the moon, the grasping of the moment, but the stoned mind becomes a mildly recoiling entity desirous of sleep or safety, we sat outside the yell singing frat after encountering the well wednesday crowd of slimy irish bar yell talking fraternizing and we glower in the corner and talk about peace and madness, some inkling of proof that ...
