Yeah, overcompensating for two days missed.
Ready to run out screaming into traffic, vweering off into the distance as the road goes over hill and brook, and we merge onto anotyher road that takes you out of the province. Maybe it’s good to get out of here. I seem to want to escape, but what is it that I want to escape from? Is it m7 stasis, my unemployment, my feelings, my conformity, my safety, my familiar patterns? Who cares/ Where does life really dictate what we need to do? I believe in the song about the red car going through the St. Lawrence river for some impossible reason. I question too and I sit down. Sitting. Why do I say the same old shit that I feel. Where are my thoughts going these days>? I used to branch out into different oatterns but there are times when I find myself repeating the same old truths and same old fictions in an attempt to just get the space filled. It is not time to be myself. It is time to get through this as quicklyt as possible, believing in a distant, unkown piece of hair that smells of burnt cheese (doesn’t taste as good thoug) and I waltz from one room to another to the tune of a guitar track from some unknown master. There is nothing groing in my head at this time and I see too many shapeless forms in the visage. The scratch and the clattering is fun, and I queen it up again. Who is a queen,, who is a king. What are we doinggrilled cheese is good. The right guards the reactionaries, and we pay dearly for it.. I don’t kn ow if I should let myself be dictated by coherence anymore. Lfe is more what I make it when I let my thoughts scatter, go into places I never thought possible and never had the foresight to go. I like the end of the wall, and I crawled over a mountain in Quebec to just gwet out of my locked mindset and think about the cheese quickly drying up on a frying pan. Dashed like a drunkard, they free the deviant yellow pork chops and I created my latest visage. Stood out about the wet robert frost books and the bald women fending off internet weirdos just like they kippered fish. Yer blues, like the Beatles song. But I don’t really want to die anytime ssoon. As long as lifer goes on ahead of me, it’s my responsibility to hold onto the possibiilities that it offers me and if I don’t then it’s just a waster. Like space givben on a record store rack to a Nickleback albu,. Or Nickelback. Either way, a nickel would be paying too much for their shitty, derivitave and constipated sounding music. Sales figures don’t mean anything. I read a chart indicating how many records the musicians of today sell and if sales indicateds quality, the record company should stamp out all the talent before they start influencing people to take away sales that “rightfully” beling to grunty mcgee, and the warbling melismatics. This is not truth. This is ranting, and I feel like letting the snot drop from one part to another. I would write too much if I didn’t have a laziness about myself. What does what I write even mean? Too self-referential. Beep booop beep. Kinky like a hose, or a dreadlock. Natty dresser like pope jean ralphio from Parks and Recreation. If the guy who wrote the song about the fish ran red like a traffic light, light up like a question mark and run loops around the coffee table. I can rap like a white guy that I am. Well my name is me and I’m here to say…that is not rap. Rap I hear a certain level of dexterity and a lievel of inventiveness. When people do it wrong, it makes the good stuff even more brilliant in comparison.