Loud haunting mutts, speaking in their protective tongues against the monsters outside, all around, hiding in every possible crevice with knives and shanks to murder unfortunate passersby. It is so fucking hot in this box of an apartment, desiring to purchase the necessary accessories to abuse illegal narcotics. All of that substance abuse hangs heavy under his eyes and he blinks much too slow now. Missing all of the scenery. All of the beautiful world.
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In a flash bulb, I nearly lost my mind, almost gave up complete control and spiraled into an alcoholic rage, breaking the most valuable things first, burning holes with matches into papier-mâché toll bridges, there are no trolls, only invasive motorists giving the finger to every traffic camera regardless of speed limit signs obliged, the type of motorist who turns sharp right suddenly in a straight tunnel, killing innocents, and innocence, with a wild jerk of the wheel. He always ends up alright. Instead of destroying the walls I've spent precious time building up, killing off the best parts of me, the parts that prove commitment to perfect ideals, the sections and fragments burned off in vicious flame, the outer part of the atmosphere and solar flares at fault, once catapulted into that hemisphere, out beyond where I thought I was, then again, where the hell am I? but before I could delve into dark recesses, hiding inside myself, total inversion and the spirit dies... I took a walk, then broke into a run, then kept running beyond where I told myself I'd originally stop, spitting on the rich streets of Calabasas giving a shit about sidewalk cleaning fees and pre-work-out stretches, the ones that loosen up the fibers and ribbons inside my legs that keep me balanced, but now these are taut, hard-wired, incredibly straightened and ready to snap and curl back up my leg. I watched cars drive by, everybody with a destination but me. It always seems like everyone else believes they have a purpose, for the evening at least, but I splashed in puddles passing my workplace refuge from the good life. The days I work are the worst days of the week. I am here for music and not self-torture. I don't care to expand my social connections here quite. But my schedule and my peace of mind call for change. I will face the mockery head on claiming that my purpose is not to sweat over chump change in the blaring heat at roaring noon, but rather to cultivate a growing talent. I need to become great at things, not bagging fucking groceries. I'd rather stock shelves in a library. In fact that's what I'll do in the mean time. Or learn how to fly-fish then give fly fishing tours through the northern woods. Or write and publish on online journals. Give me up to the sky! I want it all! But I want no fucking union fees to get me there.
