(no subject)
received the message that my mind and demeanor are laden with spelling errors. life-giving and alternately hot and cold with the scent of a rotten plum smothered in chlorine, the blossoms have deteriorated and the remaining leaves are accountable with just one hand. not to say it's the end, but that dust becomes everything and everything becomes dust. we will all be in the same place and sooner rather than much later, we will find ourselves unable to move except for our fingernails. fingernails drumming and pushing a velvet lining further into the everpresent dirt. one day i will decide on one existence. one idea. one personality. i become more and more comfortable in my awkwardness all the time. why don't you write something worthwhile?