Wednesday. October 29. 12:45 am

careful about your age, I have have been believing in magicians. some cynical sense that is well and right and that we will become resurfaced at least before drowning. I am making a plan and it is tantric in origin with roots in Oregon and with desires for Denver in the cusps of my comprehension, while the other sleeps in a desolate sleep, some some of obscure longing fought off with drunks and dreaming, while the realist wakes up early and confronts the sunrise without fear and without apprehension for the day that follows the suns arrival into our atmosphere. oh yes you can breathe now with your lungs full of tobacco smoke and your teeth gritted green with envy over the younger classes of citizens who can write with more angst than you and you worry about how overthought your phrase have become... well it seems a false alarm when they can splay themselves out over your operating table with a willing ease even before taking such paralyzing medications that keep the blood warm, the heart beating slowly, the brain moving through tunnels, the muscles believing they are stretching that eager stretch, the fingers believing they are scratching that eager itch, and the drunk lays out for sleep on the floor, hardly making it clear its intention when the Franklins of the world are out pillaging with legal representation and the borrowed time of our considerate piecemeal accounts of ballast are sewn together only by choppy retrospective narration. There is hardly a truth greater than the one that presents itself to you when you are dreaming. My truth now is that my life has become a spiderweb of insinuation and that I hardly have a hope for growth in the lower levels of my psyche even when the higher levels can come to own agreement that English is fucked because it allows vowels to end and begin words in succession without an apostrophe. Oh wink. Oh joy. Oh orgasm with the weight of my vowels, hanging and lingering the rafters of thought and yet so estranged from the big words of Faulkner and the Mississippi queens that lure the sovereign nations into foraging for grapes after the wine has all been drunk as if that is a solution for sobriety. The morning comes with a quick glint of faction, or of an ability to supply armor to the troupes or amour when they love natives and spawn and rebirth and settle and build cities in their collective likeness and the history of the world, oh why not, ode to mother, she is sleeping and would wake with a fright to find us fracking up her insides with undiagnosed root canals and cerebral palsy shock therapy treatments and illogical combinations of people and objects and clarity is so difficult to resolve oneself to find in this muddled mess of being. We are stranded in a lake that has no shore. A seaside epiphany also so close and yet the bedraggled tide of the moons brings us back like an anchor to the depths of total abandonment. I am lost tonight as I have been searching for articulate words to share to my love and she passed out after I said something about our relationship lacking danger, though this took on the characteristic of a person hiding from truth as the famous worst politicians do or as courtesy clerks hide away their failings as if going out and fetching carts for three hours is an affordable waste of paling white button up shirts and black slacks and the conglomerate company edges ever forward with an impaling hue to the ever stretching skyline and the move out took a few days because it never mattered much though it was probably about twenty five dollars a day and the English language comes in handy to form such disparate thoughts yet no one will ever translate this to be mistaken for something that can be counter culturally read.