April 7 2004

The worst thing about that particular flight of fancy, is how seriously I took it.

A question I won’t answer, an impending cancer, a thought I won’t entertain, the creeping revolution of the brain, and George is talking to himself tonight. Who can hear me who can hear me? The limitless yearning, the pining the churning.

The basic fight of the basest writer, and the most long-winded purging onto the Apple-mac pagination.

I am the tallest fig in the world, I own this supermarket like a Rio Grande cowhand. We should stack pots of beans in an oblong manner, from thinnest to thickest along the parquet floor. It is a matter of pure interest, it is a matter of simple quisling, and the quixotic toter the windmill fellers and the amorphic panoply of degustation. Innervated and deliquidated, and the rigourous tumult.

Threshing and swift so delicate and gossamer Phoenicians? My ivory silk tower, my tall white gleaming denouement.

How many madmen will be unleashed? In my heart I was broken

Why does this chick even want me? I was too tired to fight her off. I am getting my revenge now, and does it make me happy? One day my heart will catch up with my brain.

I sit like Zen at my board, things are flowing, assembly line well-oiled machine, the 1972 Miami Dolphins or the Green Bay Packers of old. You know what’s coming but you just can’t stop it.

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