City by night; cold air blankets the warm pavement, filling every crack, crevice, and concrete scar. A sense of foreboding permeates my body, scratching at my brain with an itchy finger. Macabre images ruin the parallel tracks, which I lay toward another tomorrow. We all know, however, how tomorrows are really yesterdays: reference the Procrastinator's Guidebook To Successful Premeditative Mental Masturbation. Where do I go? Who do I see? What do I do? And when is it time to ask how? All the standard, generic questions of a tarnished master plan, which I certainly didn't write but (now) am responsible to end in some obligatory, tearful final act. These notes I scrawl in my weather-tested, back pocket-worn-down-by-ass-heat journal have no significant value other than to grab at meandering thoughts in my mind; ex terrestrial finitas. And to what effect or for what justifiable cause do I dogmatically maintain the written ritual of catching such uneventful brain waves? None at all; not a fuckin' thing and for no fuckin' reason.
The thoughts bouncing around in my skull throughout a deviously simple circuit of linguine-like pathways, ending up always in my medulla oblongata, which is a grayish poundage of average sub-premium grade sweetbread, drive me insane by the nano-seconds. I find clever ways of dealing with the headaches: kinhin-- walking meditation, kung-fu death grip exercises, crayon art rip-offs of Monet and charcoal sketches of dogs wearing plaid pants, Nagoya-style soft porn, and reenactments of AMC Western movie classics (Is that you, Johhhnnn Wayne?). Nothing, however, soothes the throbbing spikes of momentary brain outages and sporadic memory loss like staring at big, beautiful red skies at night. Nothing, man, nothing even comes close to it.
It's the ultimate mental masturbation of a depraved soul. Trust me. I know all about these kind of things.
The thoughts bouncing around in my skull throughout a deviously simple circuit of linguine-like pathways, ending up always in my medulla oblongata, which is a grayish poundage of average sub-premium grade sweetbread, drive me insane by the nano-seconds. I find clever ways of dealing with the headaches: kinhin-- walking meditation, kung-fu death grip exercises, crayon art rip-offs of Monet and charcoal sketches of dogs wearing plaid pants, Nagoya-style soft porn, and reenactments of AMC Western movie classics (Is that you, Johhhnnn Wayne?). Nothing, however, soothes the throbbing spikes of momentary brain outages and sporadic memory loss like staring at big, beautiful red skies at night. Nothing, man, nothing even comes close to it.
It's the ultimate mental masturbation of a depraved soul. Trust me. I know all about these kind of things.
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