(no subject)
he was whining again. the only thing that eased his mind was the thought of the porcupine in his cave, the devil in his britches. he wanted to make it known: his grandiosity could not be contained. not in a cave not in the sun not in her face. his recklessness couldn't be fractioned into bite sized portions. the yard was wet and the grass grew greener than he could have ever thought. his eyes were waning and the sea was caving in, yet he thought it right. he responded to her with a scaled statement, one that he knew was neither right nor wrong. neutral in everyone's books. they wanted to sleep but could only concentrate, could only stare at the bears at the screen. nothing could make them tired but they got inside each others heads. they could only comprehend the indifferent.
he was living a parody of his own life, a record on constant repeat. discussing rhetorical theory was all he had left. reality was inconstant, very rarely in the present. his mind wouldn't relent and in the middle of the sentence, he finally spoke, "these words are not my own" he said "i speak because i think you want to hear, not because i think." these buildings were all cliches, telling him the same thing over and over. the things he already knew, the same words his core kept repeating. forgiven.
he was living a parody of his own life, a record on constant repeat. discussing rhetorical theory was all he had left. reality was inconstant, very rarely in the present. his mind wouldn't relent and in the middle of the sentence, he finally spoke, "these words are not my own" he said "i speak because i think you want to hear, not because i think." these buildings were all cliches, telling him the same thing over and over. the things he already knew, the same words his core kept repeating. forgiven.