July 9

Fill up days with random acts of progress like pennies in a jar. The idea of a mounting fortune is more important that the potentially awful things that are done with it. I've always hated when people spend time getting good at something for bad reasons.  For ill intent. Another case of past tense confirmation, that fallacy of thought when you say 'oh I always knew he was gay.' Post-hoc fallacy maybe. spending time with cats on rooftops, intimately thinking about jumping, leaping into the stars and all of that empty space, but not the way to go, not after dinner table discussions while we sat silent, digesting, with nothing to say, staring at the floor, we all react different to the same stimulus, no matter how many times trained in the event, in the unlikely event of monetary success, throw it in the air, dump it into the streets from the top of the highest most corrupted skyscraper, but real talents means shit because everyone is fucking talented, it's all about the right attitude, the right atmosphere, but where are those golden gods of architectural legend? the ones that design and build monuments for each other for the sake of comraderie, spelling mistake I give a damn.. they drink and whistle at women at the same bars at regular people from their breaks at back break jobs in coal mines try to smoke a quick cigarette before rejoining the mass of black dust and the darkness surrounding and confiscating air from the lungs as if breathing through a straw was enough on a death bed, there are elements of radiation to deal with in these dark places as well... the brooding musicians on stage at this bar, playing as they do with a sputtering spark of past tense prime but an ugly reminder with every reflective surface or drunken request from the mob that they are in the limelight, to be judged and held in contempt at risk of losing a girls phone number because she wants to fuck the rhythm section those cool jazz cats always understanding when to lay down fat grooves for all females in the vicinity, the proximity intoxicating as the whole mass of the fuckers, the mad fuckers from the big city, the miners and blue collar mail room workers with their repetitions and their ritualistic drinking binges with old high school friends who also work mundane jobs because kids happened and mortgages happened and because the big city kids are young they are dominant, the rest of the crew gather to get nostalgic from the time period these people are actually, presently, living in... Look at a child and try to remember. You will cry to think that far back and to understand that life is beautiful they are the beating heart of the world and everything they can do is always perfect. fucking perfect.