Listen to that jazz again.
Drink that drink again.
Onomotopoeia that again.
There is a fantastic.....aspect.
To being drunk.
And, as a writer, I must capture it.
What a beautiful sentiment. As a writer.
I can proclaim myself as a writer.
I am drunk, currently, which means at the same time I am horribly muddled and I am horribly accurate in matters involving both Truth and Beauty.
I have forgotten how to make strikeout text. This is probably for the best. It is a relic of my past.
The time has come to change. Evolve. Cast all previous things out, begin anew. Build a new exoskeleton that will allow me to survive in this new environment.
Avoid looking like a lobster.
Avoid thinking about the Red Hot Chili Peppers with sentimental undertones.
They were before our times.
What a wonderful concept, to be able to claim yourself to be a Writer.
It is diplomatic immunity.
As a writer, you are an impartial *or partial* observer.
Music is improved by alcohol.
Feeling pretentious is improved by alcohol.
The two are the same, here in these modern times, as a 21st century dont make me kill you male.
Old friends become old strangers, so my current song lyrics tell me.
My mouse allows me to flick through songs with a speed that is unknown to me.
As I was saying.
There is an inherent and ugly beauty allowed in declaring yourself as a writer.
It means you are, by your very nature, allowed to form opinions - indeed, it is your job, allowed because you do it so beautifully; artfully deconstructing and cruelly the entire sentence has fallen apart by that point but that is okay.
It is post-partial 17th century neo-deconstructionism.
Where are you going, have I not gotten you sufficiently impressed?
Let us talk for a while about your cat.
I swear I think you are worth talking to. Or at least talking at. Let us stand for a moment, observing the world move around us.
Then let me go home and talk about you to the world, to the internet, to the small subculture of people I have gathered around me, the enablers the dealers the small woodland creatures, the gamers the Golums the grim the alliterative the dangerously cheesy.
I appear to be falling to the left.
Staring at Australia.
I have wrote. Written. Writing. A note. For myself. In the morning.
Kanye West.
Stream of consciousness is overrrated Have I told you I never made it fully through the original scroll of On The Road Again by Jack Kerouac? It is a terrible shame because you aren't allowed to use the writing style of a famous bastard unless you have read his art his version his brilliance the thing people put in museums.
They were all on drugs.
Why cant I be?
You keep it going.
You keep those books rolling.
I shall become a conduit.
I am already a conduit.
How many other words can I fit vowels in to, before I arrive at the point I wanted to arrive at hours ago? Minutes ago?
Time is warped. Start closing your eyes more.
A girl you don't have.
Wrote my former self, minutes ago, in anticipation.
I wonder if this is why people drink drugs.
And/Or slice open cows on stones, statues, art, altars, altair.
Arabic for Eagle.
Altair rotates rapidly, with a velocity at the equator of around 286 km/s.
الطائر.
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1 comment:
quit it.
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