Circadian Rhythms
Right angles. Parallelism and symmetry. Perspecive. A schizophrenic patchwork quilt - frayed around the edges - a single cigarette burn in a square of fabric that nobody remembers having sewn in. A constant walking hallucination. A subtle dream state conceived through sleep deprivation, alcoholism and frequent bong hits. Have you seen the glitter falling from the menacing low flying cumulus clouds floating around her head? If you squint just right - catch her out of the corner of your eye. Magic.
Have you never seen the purple mountain's majesty? I haven't and for some reason this keeps me awake. Sometimes these thoughts happen in the middle of the night. When Everything is silent. When Everything is still. I can hear the windows breathing - letting the night air in and then out again. Some people would call this madness.
I would call this madness.
On nights like this
I like to write long
Complex
Manifestos
To my friends
To my enemies
To the balding
Slightly overweight mail clerk at the post office.
The one with the blood pressure problem and an Oedipus complex. The one with the 9mm in his locker - hidden underneath a tin lunch box carefully packed with carrot sticks a tuna sandwich and a luke-warm 20 oz. bottle of diet coke. The last bullet - the only one he really cares about - is in his right front change pocket keeping the 37 cents he found in the dryer this morning company. He has been saving it for almost a year now and perhaps I can give him the confidence he needs to finally express himself. I don't think I am going to sign my name to this one.
The texture beneath the white semi gloss paint on my ceiling is beginning to reveal its patterns to me. The area directly above my bed is most definitely a hidden Mayan calendar. If my translations are correct we should all be dead by morning.
Have you never seen the purple mountain's majesty? I haven't and for some reason this keeps me awake. Sometimes these thoughts happen in the middle of the night. When Everything is silent. When Everything is still. I can hear the windows breathing - letting the night air in and then out again. Some people would call this madness.
I would call this madness.
On nights like this
I like to write long
Complex
Manifestos
To my friends
To my enemies
To the balding
Slightly overweight mail clerk at the post office.
The one with the blood pressure problem and an Oedipus complex. The one with the 9mm in his locker - hidden underneath a tin lunch box carefully packed with carrot sticks a tuna sandwich and a luke-warm 20 oz. bottle of diet coke. The last bullet - the only one he really cares about - is in his right front change pocket keeping the 37 cents he found in the dryer this morning company. He has been saving it for almost a year now and perhaps I can give him the confidence he needs to finally express himself. I don't think I am going to sign my name to this one.
The texture beneath the white semi gloss paint on my ceiling is beginning to reveal its patterns to me. The area directly above my bed is most definitely a hidden Mayan calendar. If my translations are correct we should all be dead by morning.