it's prosperous lying awake invitation guess what
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
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