Lizards on the Airlines

I think I'll just let my fingers go for a moment. I have a lot of cleaning to do, but my feet need the rest. I guess it's just the way my life is right now. I did ok tonight.
If I were to tell you my secrets you'd see how very alike one another we are. And you'd see how very much different we are. I don't think you want that.
It's like heroine. It's like cats and cheese. Mice and sneakers. All these things it's like. Most of all, it's impossible. I feel like I'm going to be this way my whole life. I don't know what to do. i don't know who to acknowledge. If I was Micheal, I'd meow. If I was less crazy, I'd go to bed. But I have cleaning to do. I'm strangely awake, my nap being interrupted by work. I'm strangely alive, having been dead for all these years. I'm strangely curious. Curious.
The two that are I love. I love them both. It's a terrible and wonderful thing. The damned and the blessed. Osmo.

Osmo.

Strangers on a Bus

I think I'll just let my fingers go for a moment. I know I don't write prose anymore. I don't write anything anymore. I have too many wonderful people surrounding me and the beauty flying under the radar is just not as sneaky and exciting. So instead of writing for myself, I write for them. The only way to write for myself is to disguise it and it doesn't float my boat anymore. I still have my stylus though, they can never take that away. Nor the leafy pages under my fingers.
Seven point five ounces of diet coke per can. It's much better than those other cans. I like the cute little cans. Hooray. Pull out the old factories and stoke the old fires. It is how it is.

Then when they joke about their age, it makes me feel young and naive. In a way, it's quite enjoyable. I could give everyone colors and animal names or names of random inanimate objects. Such creativity gets me into trouble. I have enemies because of it. If only she weren't so damn sensitive. Perhaps if they were to brush teeth using senso-dyne. I wouldn't mind.

Black. Black like my heart
I hate him for thinking the things I am sure he's been thinking, but as I can't prove it I don't have any recourse. I get so angry. But my anger isn't really at him, it is at myself and the parts of my heart that exist yet shouldn't. Then this self-turned anger is met with pity-eyes and more people who are oh so willing to bolster my confidence by raining undeserved praises on me in either a sort of backhanded hope that they will win because of it. Winning in the end is what it's all about isn't it? They don't see it that way. They're eyes are shut. It's a difference between living in this world and living in the next. It's the difference of being happy and whole and being alive and miserable. It is the reason the world will end and the reason why it isn't reasonable for it to. It isn't about good or evil, not really. Just being, life and how you live it.

Excellent institutions, that. Like a crunchy potato-chip. Not that I know much or anything about what those are.

He came to me and we kited late at night. I gave him the sky on a string. I think I might be falling in love. Yet at the same time I don't think I believe in love anymore. Not in the way that anybody else seems to. Admiration is the closest thing now. I don't think I'll ever really love again. It doesn't make any sense to feel that way and it doesn't make any sense to behave in ways that don't make sense. I won't do it. So I'm certain that although I like him alot, I'm coming off as rather cold. I keep saying maybe I just need time.

I don't think it's a matter of time anymore. I think it's all over. Love doesn't exist...not in the way people think it does. That American way. Take me out. Buy me a dinner. We'll watch a movie. Long kiss goodnight on the doorstep. Goodnight, my sweet prince. No, no no. That fantasy can be reinacted but there's nothing there. Most of the reason why it doesn't exist is that poodle-skirts have gone out of fashion along with movies worth watching. Why do they make out in the back of the theater? It's more entertaining to examing another's LIPS than to watch what they're coming up with in Hollywood. And, trust me, lips aren't really exciting. If you think about them they are the second seat of human expression on one's face. Second to eyes. But lips are round and pink with skin that isn't much different from the skin that worms have.

We find beauty in painting the worms on our faces red. We find enjoyment in squishing our face-worms on other people's face-worms. We survive by sticking foods of various sorts between our face-worms.

Whatever.

The pendulum swings.