untitled prosepome: feb. '98

I don't know who I'm talking to but it's you, again. The next time you feel like getting a 52nd helping please try to cover that snicker coming out your ass. You know that I'm starting to unravel. I think the beginning is when I forget what I paraded to the committees six months ago. I wish to awake in a cold lagoon with a dawn half moon pouring steam down from the turn-off of my heart. I remember everything but it has the nice glass in front of it, or shall we say a blue-lit diagonal shot? The cold nakedness is to be shed of course. At least then I'd have no excuse to be alone and I could wait for a new prediction. That's it, obviously. Time to change lens. This is coming from the person who exposed too much changing lens. The lagoon is appropriately piney, or at least deciduous, I like 5 a.m. to be cold in July. Sorry Chris, I think the Hour of the Wolf has to be sleep induced, but I'll keep checking. The lagoon. No. The silouette, back-lit. I must see breath, see how we use air. You see Ash, the idiot-commonality stalks us all. It's her though, yes I'll stop the third person, can't I pay attention to my other apparitions? No darling, you're not the non-exister, that's just my mental cyst. Every now and again a thought'll bump it. And like a four-piece fold (like Mad Magazine) it'll hide again. No honey, you're the drop in the toilet. It's not my fault, I think I still need you. You're also constantly ahead of tangents followed and spoken. I now understand why mystics and secret societies get along so well. Who wants everybody to like their own favorite song?