Sidle

Spontaneous Energy: the Past Becomes the Future

The real word, beside my seen word, hides among the lines of letters.

The Last Number

I have yet to directly perceive anything, therefore my interpretations are even more ambiguous. Even that sentence is confuddled... befuddled, befuddles me, muddy, watery, flavorless, stinky...

I write insanely. I am typing. I write 100 novels of truth every day and at night I sleep and dream of humans without purpose or meaning and I drink till I am drunk and I orgasm till I ejaculate. I am in another world, a world beyond perfection and disappointment. When I wake up, I say damn. Why can't I live my dreams? In my dreams, I am God.

To be absolutely true is my goal, to be completely and outwardly the pure core of myself forever. It's always trying to come out but I find ways to shove it back in. It must be there, otherwise I am nothing and can do nothing, not care, not love, not be. But I believe that I am. I am most of what I believe there is. I try to believe that there is more, because if I am everything, then I may as well be nothing.

I don't think I have to force myself to care. I think I always care, but at times it is difficult to recognize that I care or what I care about.

I am as oblong as a widowed rainbow. Daddy books.

Elaine runs a marathon quietly through a silent city. She moves quickly and gracefully between buildings, on empty streets, through narrow alleys, around mailboxes and trash cans and trees and bushes and parking meters and fire hydrants and rivers and oceans. She runs through the Marianas trench. She breathes the water pressure. The upset volcanoes are silent and timid. The black sky waits motionless. She high fives all her friends halfway to the finish line. I ate with a similar mindless female at Fisherman's Park in February. There were ham and cheese and wheat bread. Ducks surrounded us, and we felt like captured pirates about to bury ourselves at sea, and we still wanted so much out of life, but death is a sinister minister and beckons with an icy ladle for us to eat the cold soup and be drenched from the inside out with stillness and wishing. She ate the most beautiful tree there, and I wanted to break her face but above all felt intense sorrow and pity. She makes all my blood rush to the surface and my hair stands up and my eyes tremble and fire tickles my nerves and makes my skin boil and drip onto the wet grass and stain my beloved environment.

Music makes daydreaming easier. Lost inside our heads while life flows by carrying hungry children and sick mothers, and loose maniacs and gentle cashiers, and greedy pigs and faceless butchers, and restless painters and tired farmers, and fat frogs on dirty windowsills, and snowstorms above busy, blinking cities.

He plays a Chinese harp with his falling tears. He waits for his cohabitants to lift him above his mortality. Alone, he sinks into grey matter. When it fills his mouth and covers his eyes, he sees it is Play-Doh, so he plays with it, pulls it apart, squeezes it thru his fingers, and giggles sickly.