Sunday, April 17, 2016
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Riding her fucking bike in the hills, chronological no-man’s land of middle age rude to her 30 years ago, still cringe, don’t know her, fictive. Living spatial harmony an illusion, grown to mature when experience teaches you that, good-for-shit logic had failed you there - and space gets tight, aging. Routine as anxiety suppressant, paranoia suppressant; routine well and you can love yourself like family. I don’t routine well, can’t hold a line, anxiety stays on, it’s mild. Nads itch, ass itches, can’t find right time to stop itching long enough to stop the itching. The thought of narrow space some day – long ride home on a mistake – trashed for your inhibition and forwardness in the same breath feeds guilty loneliness that suffocates late try at human connections and there’s nothing left but to tell them to fuck themselves and their time trend scripts for cool and leave you to daydream, the onset of chronological no-man’s land, spaces of the mind narrow, exterior space sells out, curiosity’s convolutions smooth, itch at the comfort margins to get by
Thursday, April 7, 2016
He devil and she devil wear a white speedo and boy is it neat-o. Your mom might print some flags for a hopeful struggling solar system and get in the history books. Harness dimensions to cure coming population crises but such discoveries likely applied to vehicles, most lines will die out, sad. My chinchilla pisses on the people.