I was reading delicately with a swift sort of consciousness. Consuming the words almost as if I am saying them aloud, which can only be done with the best authors, and who has time for the other authors? There are too many best authors.
Inability to proceed with meritorious selection, this is what makes me a tired loser. I was broiling the fact that when I put words together, the experience is not as productive as when I read them. I imagine myself with my mouth open, standing at the side of the highway, immersed with the visions of shiny plastic things zooming by, knowing that I will always be the witness and never be a shiny plastic thing.
Then I say I need dedication to a purpose in life because lacking that, those are the times I reel for things that can end the vacuum that sucked my soul out and spat it back into my face. I’m on the side of the highway and all of the people who do not want trash in their cars are throwing cans and bottles and McDonald’s cups at me, and their aim is perfect. I wonder how they never miss at life and all I do is get smashed.
That’s a normal day. My nightmares are killer. Last night, I was stuck somewhere in my backyard in the low parts of massive mounds of dirt, pushing an artillery cannon around because the big white worms who disappear on command and then show up on the other side of town were surrounding my house, and they told me that if I stayed there, I would pay with squashed guts and other stuff happening to my skull, but if I tried to escape my house, I would be shelled until all there would be is liquid flowing slowly down the street
So I thought I might close my mouth and mix a little writing into my life and see what happens. Strap me on to one of those plastic suburban vans with my fingers pinned by the sliding doors and watch my hair fly as I take a pen with my mouth and I write a story or I write a picture or I write about the thickness of disease that is inside of my head, or best of all, I write about all of the beautiful people who have the perfect aim in life and none of the dastardly chemicals that freeze a man like a dog in Siberia.