doin the kepler jumble

Back again, to write another entry. I don’t have very much to say, do I? This keyboard is appalling. I can’t get any speed with it. I don’t know who designed it and what they were thinking, but I can’t see any end intent.

Who do I impress today and what and am I intending myself. Why do I put up with such crap? Why have I do this all my life? I will force myself to suffer for decades. It is almost like a horror story epic by now (coincidentally I happen to be listening to a rendition of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ by the Easy Star All-Stars). It has become and epic monstrosity, though, my life in its totality.

I’m old, finally. What a nightmare. I was late for my life and all life, all time is rendered meaningless… …and it doesn’t matter what it is, I still can’t make the scene. MIndless drivel. The spew of a presumptuous, immature…

It is bad and uninspired writing too. I can’t say what… I can’t articulate what… Can’t… don’t…

I don’t know what I’m doing… I’ve never known what I’m doing. This typewriter doesn’t help matters much.

I mean to say something significant. It ain’t gonna happen, tho it pours out when I jabber to myself and whatever other unfortunate captive audience I have on hand, wired-up on coffee.

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This ain’t very good. stuff never is . of course the typewriter doesn’t work or I don’t. whichever the case may be. this thing, and everything else in this damn vicinity doesn’t work that great, going in and out of  veracity as I lose my focus or attention span, trying to extract something of the kind I like to see emerge from the substance between my ears,

is/was fun and so on, the grievous error which slides off the map, the fudge brain, stuff from within my limited scheme, stuff, quasi

nothing could be cringe-inducing anymore, what do I keep hitting that causes my computer to malfunction so badly, should’ve gotten a real one while I had the chance, think of Kepler and his ramblings about toothache remedies while speculating about the true nature of cosmology…