We started thinking how we were different from other people. As we grew up we realized the ways in which we were different. Time reverses the interior arrangement into a more fabricated external appearance. It's meaning liquefies like the experience of seeing gold become solid cohesive flickers of proof. Existence is a thing that radicalizes experience through telling a story even if there's no outline of remembrance. You trace your hand along, the edge of the car before you get in; it's a shape thing, another testimony to miracles being mistaken as accidents. I fell into a stride that was motioning towards an edge of a plain field, and an arrangement of rocks forming a pathway. The pathway was dry and dusty, leaning uphill, and groupings of individuals had formed to discuss one another's writing. I was feeling forced into finding a place to fit in, but instead I looked for an empty bench to begin my own writing.

I kept searching for a place to slide in, and everywhere I looked it seemed either occupied so that the pigs and piglets would force themselves through the falling fence line into my supposed territory. The pigs only disturbed one couple and they quickly moved over. They were looking for food in the things humans left behind. It wasn't much, and we were taken care of, and often mud was enough to get them through the day. Maybe a motion of willpower made me feel like a member, but I knew if I didn't wake up to write this down then I wouldn't meet myself in a challenge that I saw as necessary to feel like my thinking was moving away from nothingness.

Extremities coming to an end are like the fences the pigs no longer obey. We have a voyeuristic attitude to see ourselves as and through animals once again, so that our needs can be satisfied more easily.

I haven't given up on what it is we want in order to not regret what we could just as easily have never found.

Slums of the poet are, my god, stunning.

                                                ___
 

We have a liquid gold getaway car to escape in and an aversion to redundancy. We have fresh takes on things and then sometimes we close out others from understanding them, an individual traction on an individual wave, that we ride uninhibited towards a fantasy that's derived from a pure chemical combination that feels like a meta-plausible world where language's chambers echo back to reinvigorate our egos and feed a frenzy of arched motivation. The motivation heightens to close out economy. And falls gently back into a waterway to toss our souls gently into a feeding frenzy of fish-like characters. Persuasive or not, we might move one person. We might be forced to dumb-down truths.

I love the rush of Truth, often felt when really high. It's the interior guided by the exterior variety that is amplified by the medicinal strength. It pushes the hands of power into a friend's mouth that is moving at a rapid pace and becoming translucent. It's dust from fallen ash that shows how quickly death becomes the past. The moments can be studied but you might find yourself embarrassed if you talk in an overly composed manner. It is better to act like you're discovering something for the very first time. It's better to keep things off record, slanted towards a personalized light. I want to tell you something from my fucking soul, but it's offline and can't be located. I would use bluetooth but my chest is beading up with sweat and I'm feeling too electric for that. Conditioning your hair has its uses. We are slaves to over-portrayed anecdotal expressions. I drag a cursor through my thighs. I feel like a wick of speedy mirth. A flag extended beyond any desire.

___

You get a rush of mania, and I sprint over to catch you from the cliff. I haven't saved a single survivor, nor been motivated to extend my spleen for rescue's purposes. I was driving myself into a trapezoidal light, it crashed like a pyramid from all sides and I felt the sinners glow, as I glugged what was left. I felt so white, in my powder white shoes and pristine faux fur vest, I apologized to an internal place where disillusionment glows and boils with well-liked qualities. You feel stuck in your own self-harassment like a harness for a baby at a state fair.  I want to be mediocre so that nobody bothers to notice me.