Missing: Have you seen this tree?
I have a picture. One i'm proud of. It is of the most spectacular tree i've ever seen. I took it last minute from in the car on a cheap disposable camera from circle K, flying by with windows down even though it was freezing. It was an awakening cold, one that makes you alert- alert to improvised compositions it would seem, though i vow here never to paint my new, beloved picture.
Part of me desperately wants to find this tree. I think i'd leave a small ribbon, or a string on one of its many 'whomping-tree' obscure limbs. A brown one that fits in, just to say i've left part of me there, part so useless as the american flag on the moon; but its to no avail anyways since you can only find it if you get lost somplace beyond US 52 which saves you indirectly.
I had the most amazing of dreams, but every time i sit to try to write they sound more and more idiotic, i can't find myself placing words i dont eat with my backspace. All my metaphores are juvinile, "you know that scene in the Little Mirmaid where her voice is taken from her as that solitary ocre orbe?"
Updates seem futile, you dont care what i write and i dont usually write about things i genuinely care for. The light for Alfred's MACquarium is burned out- it's been three days that he's been swimming in darkness. I give him a little extra comfort food, but asure him three days is nothing- i've been in dark waters, you can stay there for longer than you realize. Without the light my room is entirely black at night with the windows covered and carpet-muffled thresholds. You find things in darkness, did you know? They seem so precious that way.
yet things often do, i suppose, when you find them while unaware. Mystic objects in my blindness to your love song for the deaf. Sound may be most precious to me. If you please my ears, you're on good terms. From there the only way up is to find me a tree.
Part of me desperately wants to find this tree. I think i'd leave a small ribbon, or a string on one of its many 'whomping-tree' obscure limbs. A brown one that fits in, just to say i've left part of me there, part so useless as the american flag on the moon; but its to no avail anyways since you can only find it if you get lost somplace beyond US 52 which saves you indirectly.
I had the most amazing of dreams, but every time i sit to try to write they sound more and more idiotic, i can't find myself placing words i dont eat with my backspace. All my metaphores are juvinile, "you know that scene in the Little Mirmaid where her voice is taken from her as that solitary ocre orbe?"
Updates seem futile, you dont care what i write and i dont usually write about things i genuinely care for. The light for Alfred's MACquarium is burned out- it's been three days that he's been swimming in darkness. I give him a little extra comfort food, but asure him three days is nothing- i've been in dark waters, you can stay there for longer than you realize. Without the light my room is entirely black at night with the windows covered and carpet-muffled thresholds. You find things in darkness, did you know? They seem so precious that way.
yet things often do, i suppose, when you find them while unaware. Mystic objects in my blindness to your love song for the deaf. Sound may be most precious to me. If you please my ears, you're on good terms. From there the only way up is to find me a tree.