Wee hrs. I didn’t think about it much before now the thought never escapes. Pushing everything aside.
Each word is reminisent of a sorted event and each password a reflection of my sentiments. Its better when it flows like oceans, and turns like indecision. The paper crumbled up in the corner that missed the garbage are as useful as the blank sheet waiting for pencil. Clumsy with movements, eternally forgetful. Slowly rotating with the earth. In dawn, In dusk the time in between let’s call it lust. That overwhelming that might cause paralysis, like a fly circling a beam of light. Like eagerness surrounded by fright.
Reservations about things. Left to my own devices. Distinctive chin indentations.
2h, hb, 2b, 4b. The grip in the confines of my hand, long neglected time pursuing your persence. Used until stubs, eraser in shreds, fingers bearing the impression of your blue slim cylinder form. Graphite relief imbedded in each recycled tree.
Washington Heights, late days early nights. The quiet stillness of life. In the corners and the far reach of my extremities, veins, arteries - foreignness compelled to hold on to its originality. The concept of who I am and who I alt to be carries on. It hangs in the damp air like the atmosphere.
"Nervous laughter", "laugh attacks", "Dry wit".
Lying under the sun and watching the clouds move. [Fragment]-In time eveything gains & loses and the meanings meant nothing, without action & reinforcement [Distraction] -The clouds are lovely things in the sky, slow intangible softness.
Most likely to walk into low hanging tree branches and not be embarrassed.
Tonight the moon is a pale orange.
Its not always momentary. Felt permanence unweaving before the day is done. Recreating, with its own power and the absence of ill will. The thoughts after collect themselves outside your window sill. Without the angst of day but with unraveling wants. Pebbles thrown at your window.