BBBB beeee that as it may should something be described as that relationship between filling up your brain with things that are actually supposed to be left behind and just like she said if it gets put away then there is no reason to suspect that you are being unoriginal. And the stimulus is unfair, and I have no idea what this is going to do to my longterm peace of mind but honestly I don't like feeling this way and there is nothing but an unhealthy course of action presenting itself before me and so it ends where it ends and left you do the baggage behind like those fantasies I had of running through the door and leaving some part of us behind I think there is some health issues here, wondering what the problem is and instead of waiting around I find that there is no way for me to recover the points I have left behind and as it turns out at this point this has become a bit of a challenge and instead of hating the maximum left right of the sentence there would not have to be anything deeper than that, but when I try and reach for it it doesn't get behind me, just don't feel like socializing much these days, would rather be instead the thing that once upon a time I imagined that the conversation would begin rather awkwardly, and so someone was there to listen and her technique is to be there and to listen attentively and actually really to care and to have many other people to talk to and which of these places should I feel compelled to offer the advice? There is nothing that I can find in there, nothing that there would have been had I not brushed against the glass and gotten some of the grime on my skin, and the texture of the glass surprised me, finding materializing in my mind a vast desert of streaks that criss cross the frame work that I called in to, what a novel freaking idea. angry I am with myself for putting as much of that peace of mind on the line as I have on something as fragile as a pipe dream, and exploring this other aspect of myself is definitely a path to greater self discovery, but I can't help but to assume that the lies are way too thick, something about me is going to change if I keep going, something I think I probably won't like- this kind of change is a good thing for the person but a bad thing for the world that they cling to. Can I leave something behind? I have what it is that I want, and beyond that I know there can be something before the fire and all you had to do was create a place where all the people you knew were no longer interested in thinking about you, and once you begin to see the transitory nature you want everyone to be impressed by you, to love you you do everything you can do get people to love you because you are greedy it isn't enough to have passing respect you as a person have to be continuously considered somehow, this vanity you have is like an unstoppable monster that gobbles up your time and no matter what you do it will not be enough. It isn't enough it is never enough there is never enough love you always need more you are never content if you don't get it you withdraw and lash out and people who look up to you begin to resonate with this mood when they are around you and it feels natural at first but eventually they realise that they are never in a good mood when they are with you and so there is a negative association here at work that can not be denied. In on the kill take is what you decide to have to be, like fur that gets threaded up, in the distance there would be the curvature of the moon and with the walks that you take I would be bound to have something left underrated, the music it is not doing any good, there should be a person here who has not made peace with the master of the ceremonies.

There would you think be a dark place to hide if you had to find one, even without the dark monsters waiting with their disposable beaks and incorrigable fantasies to smooch you without remorse. Intellect being what it is, there could have been some forces to be reckoned with, in all honest, but through out the desert there are people who have planted their feet hard enough to consider home home. Guessing it would be appropriate to beg the pardon of the future wife is never a mistake, but burning up the stomach with a series of nonsensical barings of the teeth can't describe the colors the way they were meant to be activated, ugly though the thought of something like this might be. You seem to never really know whether you are lost, a place that you wouldn't mind getting lost in, because there are so many doors to other places that only need to be peeked at to send your mind soaring in many different directions, places where if you thought to hard the breeze would begin to chaffe and instead of being brought someplace new you find that there are wriggles where there should be no dois. A labyrinth is what I am thinking of here, a place where there are how many books would I have to look through in order to find my own life on the page, what kind of shuffling could I be doing? And someone once said about me that I was an enormous book with a thousand pages, really well written and when you open the book to a random page there is just that one bit of me but there is so much more that you don't know. And the best part about it is that none of it is a secret. How many times have you wondered whether something you have just done has ever been done before, or how many times? The sum total of all infinity is described by the millionth monkey, and what sort of a life do you think he had?

mor eof the same

Into the brink of bananas my tooth runs out of names because there was once a time in which there would have been something to do but instead the decay sets in and tomorrow never comes. Surprised? Fun fun fun this could be, and once again the rules are set, the groundwork laid by the idealism of the inner voice I rarely let free or to stretch like an imagination I had once. To there go I often when it's time to flounder and wonder why it is that I CAN'T handle the noise but I seem to be able to postpone the unhappiness, not to create a time that it will disappear altogether, and little things kick up signals that want me to pay attention, waiting for me to realise that it isn't what I expected or thought it was going to be, and instead of eventually reaching something difficult to find I find everyday just as difficult as the one before, only more or less idle when there would be fewer examples of elasticity. Underside is the same as upside down when I think hard enough to turn off the thoughts, and free myself from vanity, the one that chases me until I am unhappy again, unpleased, unimpressed with myself. The experience isn't really worth wondering about, no. I haven't tried to define the beginning or the safeness of the end, encapsulated like parenthesis, or bookends that want to meet but bend the space between themselves into ever more interesting, infinitely interwoven non-shapes, moving in on myself like the tips of my fingers crushing backwards into the hands, and the shoulders biting back and puncturing my head. An insect describes the arc I am attempting to imagine: sometimes the barbs point in to separate directions that leave me without a clear conception of where my focus is meant to be drawn, and inside I wonder how many times that shape had been drawn by nature by the time it emerged in that form. Who can't take the outside and shut it out the way it was supposed to shut, internalising the worst of the conundrums as whittled down from a massive calcified residue accumulated over the course of six or seven or eight thousand years, until without noticing I lean over and let my finger draw across it and before I realise what I am doing bring it to my tongue and what I expected to be merely salty is actually more caustic than I am prepared to handle physiologically, and the back of my throat begins to swell and cut off the flow of air to my lungs but i don't panic, never would, never would. I die in my dreams and decide that this is not natural but there is nothing I can do about it, or rather there is nothing that I can do to prevent it from happening again in the future so I use my ingenuity which is quite extensive and proven to adapt and find myself though a different and more wary and moody person nonetheless much much healthier for it. And instead of waiting for the hours to unravel I in this thickness of pined for sweeps of long grass eat my own body metaphorically, incestuous is a word that comes to mind but I don't like it anymore because its meaning has been lost due to over use. But still I describe an arc with the tips of my fingers as in my imagination I twirl as if there were no reason to pay attention, again shutting all things away from my awareness but still unable to live completely in the moment. I am tired of making decisions, decisions I make everyday it is what ages us, when we are children the decisions we make are rooted in instinct and an assumption that only good can happen as A result, but not now, no, we have the minds that attempt to out fox the other minds, there are only so many resources for the sharing. And instead of the weight that falls away from the face, instead of the heart that seems lighter than air so that the toes feel useless, there is a sloth that manifests itself gradually like the accumulation of debris around the eyes during sleep. Let them be sealed shut, my eyes, and I will sleep, because even if in dreams I am as unproductive, the waking world is nothing more than a series of moments seen through the lens of chemicals released according to association with stimulae. I don't want death because it would be cold but since sleep is where I spend most of my time it is where I feel most comfortable, if not most alive.

Redefining my lonely unread blog to be a platform for nonsense to amuse myself

? I wasn’t so sure that he could make out the best or the worst of the procedure, all I had to do was wait a while and instead there was a strong possibility that there could be no quarter left, and that no matter how hard I tried to evoke a real emotion the lines just had a hard time making themselves from one end of me brain to the other, and then on down the line and out to the tips of my fingers which if they could glow with brilliant blue bioluminescence nations could do what they would to trust one another, n=not unless there was an equation set in there already set in motion, but you are the laziest writer of them all because you know how to manipulate your mind into becoming a situation maker, a place where the books are hanging off of the walls and the people are afraid to make due with what they have because they are not so trusting of the future, no, not like they once was, and the success of the endeavor brings forth and unbecoming defensiveness that we should no allow, don’t you agree? Callers should be allowed to have a voice now and then, when the time is appropriate, but what I see is green and a streaming gloworm of lights that blinds a short percentage of my vision but it’s definitely dark above the horizon here, and without the leisurely stroll through real facts the story has no root in reality, so you can create something that actually requires real work and research, and a pen, and multitasking and most of all some time that should be put into it, while smoking pall malls and letting the brain get all limbered up, don’t want the lazy brain to fall into the wrong sort of decadence, we must villianize that aspect of ourselves in order to manipulate our productivity. What if not by rending departure but a crack in the sky comes the hail so far away through the breaking of the waves that fall over one another like screaching leaves in the atmosphere, and still I wait to redefine my bloggishness, while pestering the beuford I expect noone to get this far, so there alack a do alack a dee. And into the darkest mood I go without a care for whom I trample, And the leaves follow tiny grey and black upon my foot a bridge of poems they make for good song and dance without the mouth of maximum overdrive.