Important Words

Time is something. An hour can go into finding the perfect second, then it's over. It can be left for an internet eternity and revisitation is unlimited, but there's nothing to hold but a moment.

Let's not downplay moments though, especially when they're in the realm of perfection. Some people go their whole lives without experiencing anything close to what we're capturing with regularity.

'Privilege' these days is just a shitty way of speaking of blessings. Aggressive envy is the fountain of the decay that is required community. Nature trims the weak, but civilized society uses them as a reason for sluggishness and the lengthening of the agenda.

Migration. Greener pastures are on the horizon. The distance that remains is filled with possibilities; the distance that has been traveled is littered with those whose weight was too much for them, or anyone else temporarily willing to extend a hand, to carry. Now we have unmediated knowledge of the sounds of vultures.

For what feels like an eternity, only six months have passed. A new robe sounds like a solid idea. How long can something truly last? Is there a way to make something of value out of dust?

Smoke becomes one with the air and, in small doses, it inevitably finds its way to our lungs. If nothing goes, it has to be somewhere. Turning over rocks, cars, and porches to see if there is anyone there that might be of interest to me, but so far I've only been greeted by former caretakers and porcelain doll parts. How anyone lets go of anything that hasn't pissed them off is beyond me.

there's something surrounding me that i've stopped paying attention to. vision's wrapped up in the material and my hearing is impeded by the ringing. time to slow down and get back to speed.

breathe.

breathe again..

hills of fingers in the foreground. air;y keys in the in-between lighten the sky behind my eyes, illuminating the area 4 to 5 feet above gravel level. tapping in to secret doors that conceal new, much sought after cardinal direction.

The dead say things that would make the living blush or even smile, if the living would just listen. Advice from a bloated corpse is the kind of thing that will elicit a strong gag reflex, but our souls and spirits are much easier on the senses, much more closely related to a lavender breeze on a crisp spring morning.

The bearer of good news and guidance is more than likely fairly held to a higher standard than those that bring the anguish with them. Packaging is important when you're an expired entity, all drippy or ethereal, rotting or radiant.

I wonder if our strings are visible from the other side, like stitching beneath a doormat. Marionettes observe more of the unseen than most scientists could ever dream of, and scientists will debate among themselves in spite of the fact that if something is true, it's possible to prove it undeniably and requires no further input. Debates are really only necessary when philosophy or logic are dressed up, masquerading as something more objectively akin to precise methodology.

The dark side of the moon if you will. There’s no sun, nothing redemptive or inspiring, yet it’s in all of us.

The city tonight is as it is, purple and full of enough un-silence to allow me to sleep eventually.

In the shadows I can lay bare here with that shadow of myself

And search the depths of my dreams.

None come here that match any semblance of what I long for, yet all feel as though they’re worthy of the time they take. If ever there was a time to take a stand, this is it, yet the willingness to entertain persists.

There’s hope.

There’s hope in the unseen,

Peace in the night

Somber and the serene.

Sleep is the thing that is given and obscene. When all is relaxed and natural for me, the questionable is factual and everything’s redeemed.

I tripped and fell down the stairs in March. The bump on my head took me by surprise and now it feels like the bruise is going down, so as long as I don't think about it, it's like it never happened. The only time it's always like it happened is anytime I drop food on the floor.

My body got smacked by a fucking car. It was in my line of vision the entire time, for the complete 4 miles it took to get to me. When given the chance to dive out of the way, I looked the driver in the eyes and spoke words of hope, words of strong and genuine belief. Headlights tend to go out when met with the force of one's knees. Now my walk is missing a certain swagger and my gaze often falls on things imperceivable to others.

A lunar cycle after the car incident is when my cat died in my arms. Unlike the injuries, this is no metaphor. Loss can come in many forms, all of which take a piece of those left behind. Some would just be thankful to have something left, some are actively seeking retribution from a world that knows nothing of feeling, while I find myself trying to hear voices from beyond the veil. Life is never quite quiet enough these days.

Wandering the deck, surrounded by infinite vastness in all directions. The stars are leading the way and the free-loading stowaways are bartering for anything potent from any stash aboard.

Three days from the rest of the world and the conversations are at least slightly different, different enough to dance on the edge of the profound. The air adds flavor or volatility, both at times which is fine, nothing worse than bland vibrations. Stem cells reminding me that trees are found miles out to sea, nothing stands as tall as tales for sale you shouldn't believe.

It's been said that billionaires are fond of astrology

The Mazzaroth holds Ophiuchus, a little too close to the scorpion.

Cycles. Cyclops. Seeing cycles single-mindedly from wherever the fuck they're hiding. Onward 'til morning, just off the toe.

Beyond vanity

Beyond safety. Into the wilderness.

Peace

Clarity

Presence. Out among the trees.

Surprises of life

Guidance of light

The ground holding tight to my shoe.

You fucking bastard.

“You drunken bastard, stumbling through.”

The sounds of planes overhead are scraping my skull clean, the man jogging by mops up nothing but is pleasant enough.

Mosquitos in my brains and the vines have surrounded my heart, here is where I stay, forever locked in the embrace of the forest

I have a strong desire to be the curator of my own funerary art exhibit. Painting isn't something I've really done or do, but Something of a display of what it was to be me is precisely what I'd need. Busy and bustling lives swarm about, obsessed with their own purposes, purchases, and ends, and it would be fitting for some to finally slow down and truly experience what it was to be the person before them in a way that was incomplete before the deadline.

Videos coded in colors, words placed on pages to be gazed upon for ages at the pace best beset by bipedal coprophages, all while an expert from the humidor makes choices a little lighter for those with weighted minds.

Hooded Death peers out from behind the coffin and looks directly at those that pay their respects, with an eerie mischief that can only be the product of an entity that is care-free and loves its work. Exposed bones of my forearm, purple with angel-hair-thin lines of gold accenting the curvature of the skeleton most've not seen before.

Graveyard Symphony plays to cue the pallbearers as the lights go out

idols rising and falling is of no real consequence these days, it’s the way of life and whatnot, but it’s something of a concern when you can see a black hole in the distance and it suddenly seems to disappear. the numbers go in, don’t go out, numbers numbers numbers, and then the next thing you know... you’re burying bodies in the back yard and looking forward to handjobs from miniature people caged up in trevor’s basement. Is it better to damn all of humanity or to desert your best friend when the stars go black? 

Having chosen my friend over humanity, things are a lot less crowded these days and it seems to be for the best. After a 16 month bout with depression I got myself together and now we’re heading west to live in the sun-drenched fire hills of California. 

I endeavored to become a day trader one evening, but before the year was over I found myself venturing more toward the True Desert. Money seemed less worthy of research and effort, the patterns seemed too full of peaks and deep-ass troughs; places where the wise would wander astray and the worried huddled over their hordes/hoards , too afraid to travel without a proper aeronautical chopper.

The Wastelands expanded faster than a recently adopted stray, but in a less gluttonous way, a way more lined with asinine attempts at avoiding any sort of intrusions by the mind - a quiet study is evidence of nothing from the other side of the door.

Moderation, bartering, and intuition for now.

A great many people pay far too little attention to the finer details that accompany a person. Nuance can take you places. The way someone looks at a box of Pez is a fast-track to their soul, yet most seem unwilling to look that closely. I still often wish that my closest friends and family had secret blogs or diaries for me to stumble on, lengthy lists of regrets written on the backs of restaurant menus, or a day to sit and tell me about all of their “insignificant” connections to things in life and the willingness to go into the ugly/lovely details of their greatest failures/triumphs, no matter how big or small.

Vulnerability of this level is as common as \\\Hundreds of thousands of starlings migrating across the region covered the skies of Rome./// While there is trust involved in the day to day, there is seldom enough there to truly spill everything. Anyone could slip and fall, find themselves in a pile of irremovable glass, only to trip into a pool of pickle juice and drown in their own tears. and juice, obviously.

matrimoniously leaping into an uncertain way of existing, but with heads up and smiles wide. As a brief aside we hide under shadow, unknown to most for a host of inconsequential rationales. Gals have their secrets and guys that keep them aren’t a mystery to me. Rarities in search of clarity and a life of ease.

if ever a wish came true such as this, we’d be content forever in a state of bliss. ups and downs ‘til one of us drowns, then we throw in the buoy to mark a new start.

Run run run then we Sleep sleep Dream. 

There is a way that people speak that must be understood carefully and under the assumption of good intentions.

There is a way that people listen where they don't really listen at all, but will still demonize a friend because of improper assumption.

Articulation still leads to willful misunderstanding.

(Emotions that I thought I could forget about for a while) have a way of reminding me that stupidity is still a quality I hold in common with others. The Labwork came back great, but nature is a less forgiving environment, even when no teeth are near. The torches being extinguished still doesn't get rid of those townsfolk lurking in the shadows, the ones with the desire to attack for the presumptive good.

The Spirits of grandpeople are recalled, the idealism of great minds met with stakes and potato people demanding silence. If people won't listen to history, what good can one person do?

while i still prefer the moon, the sun has made a pleasant return to the horizon and i couldn’t be happier about it. 

pouring in through the upstairs window and sliding down the lavender walls,

lingering long enough for its essence to properly take hold, i think i can live like this for as long as i can live like this. unconventional breakfasts are the adored norm of the now. i forgot to throw out the milk this time, though i don’t see it spoiling anything but itself.

even uneventful days don’t become boring, surprise has a place in the routines. bloody hands from bleeding heads, all in the name of fun.

now my teeth hurt

i’ll miss it, but i’m glad it’s finally gone.

there’s nothing, though it can’t take over.

it was never you that was to throw in a towel, and the thought never even crossed my mind, regardless... here i am, blindsided by new laundry. seeing as how you took the lighter fluid with you, improvisation is the way and a party foul shall be committed. the time is now for flames atop the avalanche in the kitchen, to scorch anything left that can’t fly

having gotten rid of everything but the birds and the bees, it’s now time to gas the place. i know it seems like they left when it was implied that they could fly away, but what really happened was they shifted out of existence for the duration of the fire, much like a psychopath detached from physical reality, only ACTuALLY in another realm temporarily but not out of the same sort of space as the kitchen. Whatever, the point is they died too.

When i finally get enough sleep to get out of town i’d like to think i’ll find a nice little hole in the wall and drink myself to death or something. Scratch that, i forgot the external world was in the process of ending and everything worth staying not dead for is closed. thanks for not breaking my spongebob mug but fuck you for everything else.