Thursday, May 13, 2004
-*alluva-piece mischeee-vious dander*-
Tis a pity
she spoke, she said.
To play chess
upon the hard, glass bed.
No wonder left
for her demise
a 15-year old compromise
to bring unto the grass
a shred of dignity
in a world of pure,
I have not asked, the night, for advice yet. I figured I would wait until my roommate was asleep to mellow in this moonlight hour, and seek the winged foe to devour the sins of physics. Once I was happy myself. I threw this curse upon the ground and stamped it out like a small envelope of nurturing flame. The heart is cold, the wind is warm. Le vere de'scoldarian seeks to melt my soul upon the sticky girth that is the dawn of western man. Ugh, why does it have to be so fucking hot. I piddled and faddled away from knacks and repaired the spinny salvation, breeze-carrier! Technique was this that stole the driver to turn and turn until fixed upon my eyes were lain the magic that was warmish chill. Glenn was too lazy to do anything about it.
Stony Brook is still a fad of the times it seems, but who knows for how long.
Wish me not to faith un-breathing to stay upon the cement,
a heathenistic approach, at best,
to drive my spirit to a rest
outside where-in the air is cool
and cover girls not bought and sold,
but screams upon the high-night hour
are struck upon a chord gone sour,
and to the betrayal of silence add the slingshot water-balloons,
to hit the floor upon the ground,
and make a loud, splatting sound.
That wasn't meant to be put into prose at all, so I'll stop that now. Developments have come about and writing has lost its fancy once again. Retired did I from QC of Friday past week. I tired of the mail, the questions, the responsibility I wasn't "cut out" for, so passed it along, I did, to the person I felt was most deserving. Needless to say, it feels greyt to be free again (to study?) from the pangs of qualitous control. I wish some of the old family would come back. Like Alarielle, Serenity, Xerlic, Aballister, Juele, Psionimoe, and maybe even that annoying kid Valsire (maybe I'm too hasty..). But one cannot wish for things to look up, and can only look forward to the downward crushing that is the fallence of gravitous force-mongering. I guess what I'm trying to say is 'people grow up'(?) but they never get too far from the truth of failure, fortune, and freak-accident, by-chancing, be-twixin' the air itself.
Now it is time. No more red-balloon fishie-by's, notepad ansembles, or pencil shaving collection breweries (alchemists are overly fascist). Yeah. It's time to meditate.
Grey (2:03 AM)