And now for something particularly significant…

stretching feels particularly good, though im a bit too tired to assemble words in any worthwhile manor. Likewise, efforts to maintain spelling will also be abandoned. what time is it? wish I could remember them, I really do, dark and swallowing as they were. I think there was a chainsaw involved, and a few lost limbs on my part, but who knows. A growing darkness is all I can be sure of, not of myself or my assailent, but of everything else; sky, ground, background, etc. Anyhow, I have it to thank for the broken sleep, and the consequential lethargy that plages me at present. Something compels me to communicate with you, though, despite my current mental disability. Some kind of sleepy sexual energy pushing me along, demanding that I thrust myself into something. I confess, though, that I’d rather be ridden right now, with breasts dipped into my mouth from above like grapes to a pharaoh. Though I should really abandon these meditations on beauty before I find myself with an unwelcomed erection. This apatheticly giddy optimism has kept me away from the hateful despair in which I feel most at home, and the displacement is…just swell. Really. Too much meaning, not enough reasons to die.  It’s lose lose, man, ask christ, he’ll tell you…you wanna be king? No problem, you just have to get nailed to a tree, hang there a while, and die, and the crown’s all yours. Gee thanks, dad, think I’ll just take a football instead, or a tin of hair creme and maybe a basket of soaps and bath cubes. I complain that I have nothing to complain about, and it just isn’t fair. Screw the rich, screw the poor, I’ll take what’s mine, and nothing more! You do realize that she’d like nothing else than to see you perish in some horrible fasion, don’t you? After all, heartaches are heroes when your pockets are full. With power comes paranoia, and with weakness comes jealousy and envy. Heads or tails, Mr. You know, if you write "I’m right!" on a piece of paper, and "No, I’m right!" on it’s flip side, and set it on a table between two people so that each sees one side of it, you can make it dissapear completely by overing over the center of it. Bones, bones, bones, and we’re back to sex. More the male, this time. I wonder if women love their breasts as much as we love our cocks, quite doubtful. Different kind of relationship, you see. A man’s love for his penis is very private, like his bank account. A woman’s breasts are much more like, say, credit cards. Giant flashing-light firework-shooting credit cards. You catch my drift, or wait, it appears as though you don’t…oh, you’re waving at the person -behind- me, nevermind…