(no subject)
cautious irreverent and selfish were attributes of the man. he tagged along behind the backs of others like a parasite swimming along the sides of great mammals, while walking to and from work. looking at the tops of trees waving like crowds at a concert where nobody played. he could only think about the empty stadiums and venues, floors wet, cigarette ashes and butts sidling to and fro under the manipulating hand of janitors and servicemen.
from his pocket jutted out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, otherwise he was empty handed but his mind was full of notions and theories of nurturing nature, terrifying gaia and unforeseeable events that may change the outcome of the past. stormy seas and motionless motionless. caring is such a depressing state of being for the aforementioned man. so he continued walking along the sides of streets, through gloomy refreshing alleyways, the miscarriages of misfortune not tossed next to curbs, but built upon and carried across rivers and through mountains, underground lies the seed of dead men and women.
he lit a cigarette and pressed the filterless butt to his lips. inhaled sharply, let out slowly, he waited a while for the numbing effect to set in. he continued walking, striding- no - maintaining a pace left foot right foot sometimes deciding to match an anonymous companions left foot right foot right foot left foot, right left, right wrong, he never opened his mouth excluding the exhalations of nicotine and thousands of other chemicals. try as he might his tongue was stapled to the bottom of his mouth and he could only hum. nothing.
inconsistent
pressed for time he never was as his time was of no importance. spilling vegetable oil did not worry him. he knew nothing as far as he could tell and he thought only of things mundane.
he thought of characters he met in his life and none stood out like a swollen thumb. thatches on roofs. misgivings and giving up on the idea that he could settle. settle to the bottom of a cup and wait for something to stir. stir
carrying about continuing with his cigarette making a way for himself, repetition is the key to a good progression. carry on, carry on homeward some part of himself said, and another where is this home i speak metaphorically of.
then he found himself in a clearing of all the people he ever knew and would know and the pointed to the stars and he looked up up gazing fondly unknowingly at what could be his final memory of life as hallucinations are not part of daily life.
perhaps they are.
from his pocket jutted out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, otherwise he was empty handed but his mind was full of notions and theories of nurturing nature, terrifying gaia and unforeseeable events that may change the outcome of the past. stormy seas and motionless motionless. caring is such a depressing state of being for the aforementioned man. so he continued walking along the sides of streets, through gloomy refreshing alleyways, the miscarriages of misfortune not tossed next to curbs, but built upon and carried across rivers and through mountains, underground lies the seed of dead men and women.
he lit a cigarette and pressed the filterless butt to his lips. inhaled sharply, let out slowly, he waited a while for the numbing effect to set in. he continued walking, striding- no - maintaining a pace left foot right foot sometimes deciding to match an anonymous companions left foot right foot right foot left foot, right left, right wrong, he never opened his mouth excluding the exhalations of nicotine and thousands of other chemicals. try as he might his tongue was stapled to the bottom of his mouth and he could only hum. nothing.
inconsistent
pressed for time he never was as his time was of no importance. spilling vegetable oil did not worry him. he knew nothing as far as he could tell and he thought only of things mundane.
he thought of characters he met in his life and none stood out like a swollen thumb. thatches on roofs. misgivings and giving up on the idea that he could settle. settle to the bottom of a cup and wait for something to stir. stir
carrying about continuing with his cigarette making a way for himself, repetition is the key to a good progression. carry on, carry on homeward some part of himself said, and another where is this home i speak metaphorically of.
then he found himself in a clearing of all the people he ever knew and would know and the pointed to the stars and he looked up up gazing fondly unknowingly at what could be his final memory of life as hallucinations are not part of daily life.
perhaps they are.