Spice of life putting the whole meal into perspective. Why couldn’t I have figured out that this day wasn’t over at 1:33 in the afternoon? It’s something that a sane and logical father figure would have realized by this point. But that’s not me, babe.
I feel my eyes are out of perspective. There’s not as much love as there could and should have been. I’ve got to find a job. I’ve got to get into a place of my own. There’s a baby floating round these parts. Have you ever seen it? I’m ignoring it as well as you. And you’re doing such a great thing. I’ve got to get in the internet and find work. It’s my next task. Land a position doing what is destined to be done.
You’ve got to be making executive decisions. Time skips undone when you’re not looking. I’m so sad, but I don’t give up. I want to be a writer more than anything. I keep feeling like people are looking at me with scoffs in their eyes, all of them wanting to be stars, pushing me into the extras camp. The encompassing feed. This wasn’t supposed to be me. The glass on the sidewalk makes me nervous. I’m afraid that it’s going to get stuck in my dog’s paws. A meteor shower of the moving scene, thus Zathura. A constant Democratic process, determining which of my thoughts get noted. It’s not like there are a ton of them, but it still takes deliberation. My phone like a silenced pistol to my computer’s light machine gun, not as efficient but good to use when my wife is asleep. It’s when I feel I’m failing that I really start to go nuts. The question that I most often get is how do I walk this life with a straight face, it being such a joke as it is, me and all that I end up having done.
Failing every take off. The ocean spinning Tidal waves around Kanye’s new tracks. Lotion, give me a dream. You’ve got to give it worth. Some day I’ll stop being such a stupid idiot. It’s a dream of mine. Surely you can relate. People are feeling sad for me again. I’ll be back in 5mg. Doing my best to recreate television’s continuous newsfeed on my internet fed Chromecast que.
I want to be an airfield of my mother. The wild lightning of her mind. Slice of house life. All of the kisses that crashed against my closed off face. There will be future ways of being better. If we’re not doing any real harm, then don’t worry about it. We’ll get things together.