The past flows through me like the blood in my veins as if that blood were a hulking machine careening down a thin alley carrying a woe unknown for the recipients yet named; deliveries all told bringing out the history of an identity gasping. The idea that we could all be just stories relayed within our own skulls, told over and over again to wake upon the laughter of what we are. I don't know where you come from but I've yet to reject a regret. Because you see what isn't there, a dimness that frightens you into thinking you aren't who you are, a knot like a thorn upon a stem or a kink like a joint upon a toe, minor words spinning finer birds further and further abroad so far that they've lost their flight patterns and their family wasn't there anymore. And the future becomes past tense and the dire comedy relieves itself on the CEO's lawn while you loose yourself into the thick waitress without a care in the world. All scattered and rolling, a vase of marbles: your thoughts. They are there and that cacophony won't rest lest some brain aneurysm springs upon you like the Dr. Kavorkian waiting in the lean-to you built for your sanity. So I thought it was interesting, in a worldly way, to listen to a song in Spanish. So I was pursued by an over arching plot of self destruction. So I often pretend that those I wish were looking actually were. So I deceive myself. So yes, I laugh at my own jokes. Ill intent wasn't the point when the latent cause emerged from the depths of the apartment of the past where I drank somewhat and kept passing out underneath the poker table. Just know that what looks like a round light on the ceiling is a skylight that lets natural light in. There is no switch to turn off. At night, some light still comes in. If you need a darker room to sleep tell us as it can be blacked out.
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