Between dreams and reality exist whole dimensions.


This is me freewriting. I have nothing to say, and everything to say it about. And a whole world to listen (or not). The tiny gaps of time I can capture in the midst of this frantic, frenetic day are not enough to compose, merely to splurge. And splurge I shall, on my trove of words. I shall sew them on threads as thin as gossamer, into strands of gleaming thought-pearls (pure and impure alike). It is an exercise I rarely allow myself, making these pearl necklaces, which I never give to anyone (har-di-har-har) and yet do not keep for myself. I sometimes wonder if it is because I fear this torrent of nonsense pouring from the wrinkles of my squishy pink brain, and yet, how can that be so when my thought fluid is my supposed lifeline (though a fluid lifeline is certainly a bad idea)? No matter, what is important is not what I feel about what flows, but only that it does. And even in this organic deluge of ridiculousness I cannot help but correct the typos, which contain perhaps some much needed humor that my seriousness is attempting to drown So I resolved to stop correcting these simple mistakes, in favor of the freedom granted in this ignoration, though I must say that I am ill resolved in my resolve. adn perhaps just ill. That may be the career talking. or lack thereof. I lack and lack and like my lack, and yet long for a lack of lacking. I twist and type and sit. trying my utmost to ignore the chair in which I sit and the screen at which I stare and instead find some true bit of ispiration. yes, ispiration, that most ineffable of qualities, perhaps because it is missing an N which would make it somewhat more effable (though whether that is somehting to aspire to  I cannot say). this is the winter of my discontent, and yet not winter. but can summer truly be discontent? I know not, and in not knowing have found release. release from the need to capitalize or be correct or not be correct, or hell even make sense. and I enjoy that. at least more than what I should be doing at the moment, which is, which is, which is: produce. Ah, produce! A tomato perhaps? no I prefer real fruits to those disguised as vegetables, though vegetable like I may well be in this state. But I am not a fruit. I have a wife, she can attest to my unfruitishness (though she is as likely to laugh and declair only that I am fruitful). And –

now my concentration has been shattered by the calls of reality and I must give up this foolish tirade.


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