Puccini

"There are no she-males, there's only you."

Listening to Maroon 5 in a self-enforced insomnia. Fingers tracing outlines "change of weather, still together when it ends."

There are no fanciful musings as the smoke inhales my lungs in a combustible fatigue and as crumbling vocal patterns adumbrates forlorn shutterbugs. There is no rest for drama.

Ibi dreams of Pavement. I dream in trip-hop, stilted motions.

To be most frank, the inability to write without the "I" stifles me. The fixation on the self, this solipsistic attitude towards ontology is so puerile. Was that used correctly? From a distance I hear "unclear antecedent" being exclaimed from someone with some deep lung capacity. Improper usage and impropriety act as indicators of personal ineptitude. Persons who write in tongue are merely too cowardly to express or reveal actuality or their interpretation of it anyways. There is no actuality--blah blah blah, Relavitism; lack of universal metanarrative in this era.

Apples and Rice are delicious, especially when consumed at beaches.

What's the point of others reading when they cannot understand these cryptic messages? It is a self-indulgence. You know I feel lost when I'm posting.

"Where are you? / Well, I was the one worth leaving" echoes on my speakers. How unfortunately true.

Sugarmuffin= Cupcake?

Cardinal directions are often mistaken but Earthy science rectifies our misconceptions. The never ambivalent atria of the heart will cause death upon moment's indecision, much as indecision has lead to the passing of many ticks of an arrantly wide-faced Wesclock, electrically tipped--that crypt--in the presence of which even the arhat has died.

Playing with the comma as if it were black play-doh. Shape it first as a dunce hat--the children with autism go first, those with prosopagnosia go last--then catch it with your most sinister hand as if it were about to slide off a dusty oak schooldesk to create the unexpected curvature.