I am typing from the stem of my consciousness. These are the last words I will speak today before I trudge lazily into my little boxed bed. At least rest will be assured. As of yet, it is very unnatural. The mind speaks aloud and flows in an organic manner. Usually clogged up by thoughts of inifinity. Despair hides behind a cloak of aspiration. Its tentacles beckons the darkness into its gaping mouth. No actions can justify its means. I am lost in my observations in the mind's eye. This is where pulsating red vessels flow transimitting fickle imagery to the brain. Memory is too short to replace. Simple syntax is too hard to explain. If only... the world was a much smaller and concise novel.

The darkness in my voice has faded. I have been so too much in the sun. Double speaking the visions of fantasy and fiction.
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An entry of grizzly grizzle. Talent is only so so limited, it wears and tears like the durability of reality and space. Those ideas that I seek are untimely illusions. They are spasms of a sick man half-deprived of thought. Something completely random and irrational.


I like puzzles. Hunts to find symbols of a disguised sort. I like to fill in the parts that are missing, so that messages may be completed. At least that makes my heart less fallow and my time less worthless. It's an escape with uncertain odds, but every answer is unique And every problem has a solution.
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ok.. i must be like really tired right now, because I reckon I've just launched like a missle attack on Surrealism. Seriously, I probably need some mechanism to help me cope with such uncontrolled mindspeak. Then again, its only as weird as all my other entries.. - -"
Maybe stringing miserable, over-written sentences are one of those things you do unconciously.
Sometimes i question whether or not i have any self-awareness at all.

Ippy