ask me if i'm a truck when did you last stop and think...	info	bug report

twelve Enough of real life, or should I say not enough of what I thought real life was, a fantasy, a dream, an illusion at least for me, no matter what I think I see. I have no choice but to fear what approaches because I can tell what it isn't, gives me too much room to consider what it may be. Clouds cough up the moon & the dismal heat stretches all the way there & back, my criss-crossed shoelaces, frayed, an allegory if I try hard enough, I can persuade myself of truth in a snap. An assignment, my own imagined workbook, to create a lesson where no lesson needs to be. What an idiot! That guy there, chopping heads off & disposing of them naked while the body decays at home (I saw it in the paper)... He's got potential too -- imagine & play with your own mind & tickle yourself pink & disgust... Incoherent & intangible, my being as I try to lay it all down on the line, one line at a time. An endless exercise of whatever & whatnot & so forth & so on. Language fails -- we should find something better. I should find something better to do with my time.

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Don't try to sell me your New Age guru troubles. 'Cause I'm already reeling doing that good time gospel shuffle. And all your thumpings about some Armageddon ain't no big deal, 'cause I already hang with Him. Clutch
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