"You are a fat pimple on the ass of god" -The guy from the television
I am disappointed
handed blindly to frustration
thrown into the slick embrace of anger
and wetly birthed by sweet confusion.
always concerned with what people think but never quite realizing that people may have already set their thoughts into concrete. Forget changing, they've already established the program for automatic mind metamorphosis. The dice has already been tossed and tallied. The world isn't going to acknowledge the score unless you got a yatzee, and the chance of that is low because you only had three die from the start. So? you started late, you missed the development, crapped out in the first round, bet your cash on the wrong chip, and? bet the house, screw the mortgage, put the dog in the pound and sell papermache chickens on Ebay (They'll sell I swear, just put the bid at nothing). Start late and take the finish like it's owed to you and scrap what's left. Forget the confusion and the footsteps inside your ventricles speeding the blood flow and hurrying the heart attack. Take a moment to look at that kid on the sidewalk who could spend hours painting daisies in chalk and humming nonsense, entirely unaware that later she'll do the same thing in her room and harmonize to predictability.
The glider thing may now be postponed for a while. Oh well, I don't know why I expected that to actually happen. Seems my expectation and blind excitement run hand in hand with a lawn mower.
Oh, and today sweet music rang so true upon my hall stair as I trampled back indoors. Dear Decemberists, I embrace you, and you in return thrill me...
Find him, bind him
Tie him to a pole and break
His fingers to splinters
Drag him to a hole until he
Wakes up naked
Clawing at the ceiling
Of his grave