I wonder how mom would have explained love at 20

Another grind off my lifespan, but then again, isn't any dough exponential improvement over none at all?

Here I am, hearing some deaf cab driver sing something about airplanes, and a glance abruptly becomes a stare: a beautiful baglette of dried up broccoli with finely woven threads of orange. Some celestial spirit has so graciously left this for my indulgence! Bag open; took a sample I suppose. Though I quickly forgave this gesture upon inhaling the budding flower's rich fragrance.

I must admit, after a long day, it's... really nice. Thanks, stranger.

I spend a lot of time at work writing random shit in an incoherent shorthand. Which is most of what I write, especially the last few weeks. Here's last night in a nutshell

Inspired by Dictionary.com RSS Feed and Chanbara!
Abject, out of date, apodictic gumption that must. Be. Fenced. Trig and torque in the rolling of tongue, stonewall aporia of bodiless patois. Sublimate, disengage, fueling suffrage at the abandoned hallow gate. Bombard, broken start, skylark, and discard - yesterday. Futilitarian gospel of "let's get on our knees!" They plead surrender to these seaming strings. Mind your gun, thought's a long shot, lobotomized trigger that's pleased to be squeezed. A melting of feet with regard to come clean from this burning blacktop masquerade. Moods with a wardrobe that dress for cold weather; bare soles frostly bitten in a bellyflop game of pretend to be friends.
*guess which 10 words I didn't know


Weaving hand, weave yourself. Lie to my eyes with wormhole ridden domino trails.
orientation of the Universe does not improve nor disband, but idles perfectly;
reciprocation of emptiness and form.
It's happening all around us, this microverse we call reality
fevered dream indeed. Something as intense as there being more than nothing
could shock you into believing a heavy nightmare painted with sadness - and desire
where all that is seen and heard and sees and hears is burning; aflame with "meaning"
As if to say this web of willing nerves isn't just one more unwilling reaction to a single shockwave of endless significance and ultimate insignificance. Infinity merely complex from the glimpse of four small dimensions. Each inverted improbability aborted into new sand to drip a brilliant iris. There is no doubt more of us dwell among the stars. We are as profound and desperate as the mites who mix and fade into the dust.

It's like a nightmare trying to verbalize this lucidly luscious image. In my attempts to salvage the noble and holy friendships, it seems I would rather save a comfortable seat than let you become meat left to rot, while air seeps through discontent brains that no longer think about thoughts and their trains. Who could predict never feeling shame, for living day in day out, always the same? I'd rather grow gils inside my head and suffocate on that oxygen.

I'm going to sleep now maybe.

Though the answer might be interesting, if you have a five year old son.