Yeah baby, I say it again it's excellent (here I am hollow, here tired, bored, stoned, light flared and factual and physical and 2AM). But super fantastic is it to progress at least a little (hair, follecules (look up definition to follecules discover a better spelling, follicles, do not finish reading definition, disctracted by greasy follicles and sore hair ends pulling all day and recognize again the initial frustration that is my fingers obsessive cracked open unconscious lust to destroy all else on this body (come on, rip her to shreds!))) seeing my first even post and skimming over funny ones in hours of dead night boredom (mucus dripping down down town...)

yeah there's all that stuff. it's tripping. too many ideas. the more intelligent you are, the more you do it, the more you see the connections between everything. but you get better at honing in.

ah bull shit. the fucking process. The reason I never stop talking about the fucking process is because I always have to process my mind through my own metal machines in order to get anywhere near soft enough to express, and by that time I don't give a shit and I'm passed out dead in a ditch somewhere. an unpracticing artist is an immolated man.

what comes next. fill it up again. read. listen. watch. think. do not speak but in questions.

"artist mu-mu-mm-m-must be ex-puh-puh-p-p-p-pexpansive!"
oh certainly right

Are you mad to live? do you burn, then burn, then burn again and then on into the night like, say, a roman candle might do?
nope. no you ain't. you sittin on the couch watching tele cause you think working two hours on journaling in a day and not having a job quite yet has given you some rights to do so and also somehow necessitates a need to quietly forget about your lackluster depression. You're sitting there waiting for the next blowjob just like everyone else, getting high and pilgrimage to haight ashbury to see the cultural revolution but your eyes were fixed already, not empty but set already on stars. forget the men and women sitting right next to you here and now in this room. forget potential and the inner god forsaken depths of all even the greatest blundering idiots of all times, give me a deep motive, shit it's gone....

obsession. I'm for anyone who writes about their obsession.

again, as always, I will reveal nothing quite yet. Lord I'm tired.

dear zen lunatic

may you be
two children
laughing on a mountain peak

don't dumb it down

as kid gazelle says, "the messiah is gonna come out while you're washing dishes."