like my godforsaken heart might stop beating if it weren't for this damascus steel pacemaker. these planaria (platyhelminthes) coloured organs with their technologically mandated rythems. if i talk about the colour of something it stops being a metaphor & becomes something true. everything will be ellipses syncopation; it looks like percussion but its mostly just pauses. all i can do is slink around the outskirts of the tigres & euphrates waiting for someone else to come up with artful ways to use agricultural tools (i:iv:ix). i think about that special paint they use to mark the queen bee in order to cheer myself up. or about how spring heels jack (achilles of the black bag) got away scott free.
so when you switch from walking around your apartment like a whisper filling up your water glass while wrapped up in a blanket & avoiding sleeping to striding back & forth from the bathroom to the couch still wrapped in a blanket only wearing it like a cape & humming the imperial march? is that a good thing or a bad thing. that hazy waltz from sexy scizophrenia to hum-drum eccentricity. i'm so conflicted. where the fuck is my talking slingshot. my stomach is the cuttlefish & my heart is the oyster. which of course predictably makes you the pearl. substitute viper & venom for extra moral ambiguity. the lie of moral relativism is the manifestation of nihilism in modern life & the shades of so called "grey" added to so many pieces of literature & film (for the illusion of "depth") is the sign of a thoughtful & mature writer/devout athiest. i watched the sunrise & walked around on the subeams etched through the patchwork venitian blinds of my living room. which i guess makes me the dawntreader, & this is my reepicheep, sent in his tiny kayak towards heaven. ( Collapse )