Surmise. What can half a brain can do. There are about 5 ways to do a problem, sober. I went to Toledo once, and my friend's floor had a girl on it that probably never kissed a guy. I made up a girlfriend excuse for that weekend, and I say now it was stupid. But after all, I was sick, though getting better. Exactly is the constant dissatisfaction that drives the best of us for the most important reasons. Numbers don't always lie, but they aren't my T. Joys. They start, they move, they drive and they hide, mostly. What happens when are turns to is, yet clearer it glimmers. How words wrap around literal definitions, of form to the cosmos! Math hide it's eyes, if behind black velvet blanket it can't get results.

Shivers. Crimsom. Do I understand? I try to kick it sideways with my neighbor girl at hand, but it never turns out. We read sometimes. That was nice. Now All I want to do is paint and play guitar, and sometimes I try to pull the reign on thinking, and it tears me down, actually. So I try to build up, when i can, when i get a break. I break myself, and it doesn't hurt in the traditional sense. But that is the point right? to build strength so that the fibers snipping doesn't do damage when the strings are snapped. Napped. It helps sometimes, but not sleeping too long. That doesn't do any good, it stinks. Or smells, or to tell you that well, but, the same time could be spent otherwise. So i do another thing, and try to be sapien.

It happens, but I don't do anything. Nothing ever happens personally, and I don't claim much comment to the point. Namely, it just doesn't matter. The inside counts, and looking out stresses me. My thoughts are highjacked by a sense of thinking in external terms. So all I want to do is get away. Stay, say, in a little napsac I can put over one shoulder like a Feynman and his case. He worked with laws, and could argue in very direct language. He was very good at convincing himself and others that guilt was not present, and that responsibilty was not in the hand of people who acted when situations were set up. He was not a lawyer. He was a theoretical physicist, and loved his work and the machine he used to get results- his brain. He was kind in this way.

New days exist ahead, and no amount of predicting will tell them apart from fantasy, or from the real world picture. Time is going slow. I must be miserable. My words don't stick outside even though it's cold in my heart. Ice. I'm glad and summery inside besides that. People say go out, I say.... well, perhaps. I agree, but it's not for the reasons they have, and not in the same degree, so i tentatively concur. That's when i skid.

Ties, betwixt people and i, are sparse, crabby grasses, that raise between my toes, and make me think of wonders. When I meet someone, it is the same way. Why now, here, you me? I have no anwsers, but it seems entirely remarkable. I know i'm likely not even a flake of dust scale-wise with all, so without much hope, i attempt to frame myself as being caught in a shaft of sunlight as well. Turning the world around, I lose my words, and don't feel alone in this. Particulary is the case when i kiss, my mind blanks, I see vague points of light when my eyes are closed. Language stops, and evolution continues. Imagination blushes and blooms in lighted corridors that i walk down sometimes. I like those times. Pages of moments past flutter across the concrete of alley, I wander by buildings that contain aspects of my personality. I am them, they're i. The is no difference, but the window sills sag under heat exhuast, the time machines been running to long, and memory is hot, but the windows can't open. Such is my lot. I'm skatting on thin ice.

I can't seem to find levered door knobs. I fancy they are black, but it doesn't matter. There is something in my mind that says it is aware of where my feet go. I agree, but don't really understand. myself. Why then contemplate my motions? it's interesting, so my strongest argument is Why Not? So I twirl.

Time is a bust, Space is bunked, and all I want to do is go home. But i'm aware, so i have to say that was just a sweep of phrase summing dry days, up off the ground so i can read it myself, in my sphere of mind. So the point is that I make up what i do, and then build around it. Nothing other than the world as is goes into what i do. I let the warm are select turn to building. But perhaps I'm still walking on the concrete.

This is most likely.
I hang up my skis on a wooden, unpolished peg.