9/16/08
Okay, so I'm going to just start busting this out real quick into spontaneous prose like Kerouac, and not fixing any spelling mistakes because I really don't want to ruin the flow of my rewind-fast forward motion mind. I awoke from the dead to find my clock saying miserable things and my body fast forwards to jump on the bus in all of that glorious morning rush. And my nerves and veins all agree and are trying to persuade my mind to regret all that philosophy or what not starts to get very paint splattered and crinkly and it's like fighting off a disease called pessimism. Outside is rushing quickly by my threatening window , colorful and oh so green. The different pigments of the shards of brown fly and float overhead over eyes and body. The small frames of petals and puff within the flaps and life amaze me in their important minority and how they can glow so radiant and have such a soft and meaningful susurrus. And here we go again, another structured experiment in a mausoleum taunted by the sun observing near. But then it's eyes decide to never shift, because our small unessential puzzle piece is more important to the sun than the dying or the living or the ones just in between.
Author notes
This is a semi-old works of spontaneous prose. I used to be immensely into it. I solemnly swear I did not edit it a bit.
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