Everything is blah for interim. Life for the majority of the time is a series of comic strips that forged out of some clumsiness and awkward coordination and little direction of pose-able thumbs are wading through watching me stumble trip, sometimes run, scream and fall.. faltering because many of the pages are clumped together and time, lacks meaning. Who is to say that a minute constitutes a block or frame of 60 seconds and an Hr 60 minutes, relative to who and in what existence. – pft. Scoops of a series of miniature disasters. Lead to whats is, what isnt and what should be. Tranquilize me, pftt. Yeah ok. Not. Working. Big fucking deal right. Edit the space between the ears where left and right are supposedly joined, what seems like an entangled twine. Light up, fire up. – more like back fire. All smoke and mirrors here. More loop the loops with some shot up fool on a miniature bike. And more waving flags then that at the circus.. and waving for what.. get me the fuck outta here. Funny how colorful they can be. I wish to see a circus of black and white, shades of gray.
Everything is and isnt and useless most of the time. Fuuuuuuck it. Eyes are meant for viewing or for sleeping. Perhaps the odd blink or two. It inevitably becomes dull and drone like, mull about, robotic, insert card here, stiff, Still life. Perhaps I am the bowl and others are the fruit. I’d be the fucker who turned the lights out. Then view my nothingness. Eh. Everything and everyone becomes forgotten, configures. Confluence brings a great dive in the mass that also brings a togetherness of a pit of nothingness. A black bulge. You could have a mass of people compacted so tight, meshed, blobbed into one. Coz I bet not one knows who the fuck they truly are. A blob of despondence. And I bet it would be soulful. A million eyes and souls transparent in equality, lost eternally. Still, breathless, Grateful for a journey in one another.