Monday, July 25, 2005
Roots of the Pull
Mixing the undernation twine-twirling squad of the morning disaster portion. All images are busted into brown danglers. Forget reality, forget personality, forget morals. It is time to dip downward in the faux-random haze.
In the kitchen I browned some meats in a greasy pan. I looked at my stomach in a mirror shard. I poked it. It bounced back.
I have no romantic tragedies to iterate, only fortress-like malabsorption of wrongness. I am sitting in my toast tower trying to imagine what might be of interest to someone who is
1. not addicted to methadone
2. not in a frenzy of split personality
3. not narcoleptic
I cannot think of anything. I am at the end of my creative tether.
I pray for a zenith of self-confidence and ideas to hit me like a basketball in the face. Night night my darling doodads.