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Afro-Mexican, Dance-Dance, Revolution...

Remind you of something?
Virginia Woolf
Poe and Friends
Remind you of something?
Tax Man

Let's get formal. 

"Believe you me,  my friend this is neutral writing."- A string of consciousness.  Any fool can, I only wish I could fall in.

     I'm tired.  And this broken swiveling chair isn't helping.  "Everyday it comes to this, catch the things you might have missed."  Milk confuses me.  Maybe it's the reaction of it or maybe it's the fact I keep drinking it in spite of its effects.  What I mean is it gives me gas.  Disclosing a lot.  That's unattractive, disclosure I mean.  I'm sure after a while gas becomes okay.  I would think so.  If things were cool.  But disclosure, that can get monotonous.  I think that's a form of transcendence.  Allowing someone to fart in front of you that is.  I had a whole joke thing.  Fart, ha-ha.  Man... take me back to a time when I felt something because right now.  It's all so, dry.  "How's it goin' my man?" Oh, I'm good.  Indifferent, really.   

    What's depressing is all things change, whether you like it or not.  Sorry if my tone is a bit sardonic.  Don't want to rain on anyone's parade.  But they change.  And from what I gather going with the flow is the key.  Interesting.  Man, I'll tell you I got some barried shit.  A lot of it.  I got to look up what suppressed memories do.  I mean, I know they sub-conciously dictate behavior but to what degree?  I don't know.  That should be the theme of this whole little paragraph "I Don't Know." 

 But man "it" is a powerful thing.  I'd drink sweat.

     I'm running out of memories.  I keep trying to hold on.  But time is a killer.  And they go to the suppresed file.  I have to keep making sure which ones need to be dealt with.  Everyone does.  I'm know different.  Just making a statement.  But really, our memories are selective.  So, I can manifest any attitude I want.  Just pick the memory and react.  It's like painting or something.  Am I losing you? Okay, so I saw this guy speak.  He was talking about the myth of memories.  What means what to whom etc.  I'm like so? He steps out into the audience asking all these questions. "What happened in this room in the last five minutes? If I told you to tell me could you? If you told me that the fly buzzing in the room (he points) is what's happening and you (women smiles) yes, you then told me that you were watching a speaker and that is what's happening... who is right?" I'm like what the fuck does that mean?  I'm going on a brief tangent, but yeah buddy tell me something I don't know.  Memories are selective, care to elaborate? 

     There goes that stomach again.  I feel like vomiting.  Is there a way to write in comatose?  Put your hand out.  Right now, and grab the air.  Hold it for one second. Don't fall away from this.  Just smile and do something.  So, the air is there.  How does that feel? The air in your hand? Can you feel it? Is it hollow? I'm not probing you, it's just interesting.  So... did you feel something? Did you grab twice?  I know you didn't grab.  That's okay, but if you did, remember what that feels like.  Are you as tired as me? It's late.  And that empty hand of yours (if you grabbed) is what days have been like.  Grabbing at the thought.  Grabbing at the comprehension.  Coming up with air.  You see, my hand is not empty.  That's clear.  Air is present.  I'm not empty.  I just want more butterflies sometimes.  In my hand.  I do grab.  At night, in the day, I grab.   I open my hand and there it is.  Sitting there, wonderful.  A butterfly. I want that more.  There isn't much for me to say now.  I'm being greedy.  These are my 3 a.m. thoughts.  So, a buttefly perhaps?  Or at least give me some perfume, that possibility of grabbing air, not seeing anything.  But smelling perfume.  That'd make my day nice.  I get that sometimes.  But what about today? What about the air in my fucking hand?    

If this is getting to blargh, I understand.  I  feel blargh a lot when I read stuff.  Blargh.

Stop and think about the ethics of this page.  I'm over it.  I give back.  So, it's 3 a.m. and as a friend so eloquently put it "I can't sleep without hearing the melodic sounds of BUCK BUCK, it's like a remote control to the real world.  You just point and click, click, BOOM."

     Future is as future does.  So, back to the loathing.  Woe is me? Wow, that pisses me off.  Woe is me, right? This isn't woe is me.  So, the evening I've always longed for.  The silver ship sailing into the ocean.  "How do I muster the perfect day? 6 glasses of water." -Bjork.  It's not up to me.  That's cool, I dig that.  That's sage advice.   That's all this is about.  Mustering that perfect day.  Capturing it for a moment.  I was on the BART.  I looked out of the window.  There was leaves.  One in particular.  Small weed maybe, and I looked at it.  Focused on it for a minute.  We eventually go by it.  But that weed got a minute of my attention.  And other things that don't usually get that attention will.  Believe you me.   

Believe you me,  my friend this is neutral writing.  A string of consciousness.  This is how I end up sucked in.

Hey come in, have a seat.  I've started so, just make yourself at home,  I guess.