Monday, November 16, 2009


I do not own such things for they just own me.  My vision of breathlessness is what I hold close, a representation on being free from such cress that breeds on my borders.  I look out windows almost constantly unconscious of what I see, I have been taken away..ugh this place is filth, goodbye.  Make my death full of sensation and thought.

27. May 2009

   I was supplied with a wealthy abundance of what loss can be.  Stripped of my clothes, rope and shackles, I am now "free" to pace.  The walls are gaunt and my body is ridden with rope sores.  If only I had a shirt, a chair, a rope now, used differently and to my advantage I could pull myself from these depths.  Remorse is a peculiar thing that derives itself in many variations.  Not of my own doing but preventable by only the way one goes about his nature.  Being remorseful for ever being remorseful... like the wishing of events on oneself to bring about clarity... purity.  However, stupidity is understood easily when the adversarial means supercede any goodness that could be contrived from these happenings.  Specificity with thought is an important role concerning most desirable outcomes.  If a mind is vague and apathetic with its contemplations, the culmination thereof is evasive, and finding a meaning to beneficially attribute to oneself is like finding a needle in a haystack.  Do we need to be open to all forms of degradation?  Is the lesson also that; the lessons we want to learn don't happen because we don't necessarily prepare ourselves for lessons?  In that case, there would be no need to be concerned with detail and concentration.  Only on my own terms do I want to experience loss and simpleness.  How do I benefit when I had not cautioned myself to circumvent unpredictability?  Contributing to worldwide appreciation has halted with these events.  The meaning is intangible and only provokes ugliness in me.  If there is a deeper explanation I'd expect one to grace me as I beg god for warmth.  Perhaps it's rather like, finding the correct needle in a stack of needles.  My breath escapes me and travels upwards to freedom, clarity... purity.

So much I really wanna be killed by a very sincere women but not the type that blacks out the sunshine over complacence on my who understands passion cultivating itself through fucking, singing, drinking, laying in dirt, making life with hands, blood and carpet.  A really good shot at a shallow portrayal of catching me off my horse.

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