Elliot Smith, you showed me what it's like to be a person

2003-22-10, 9:59 a.m.

Imagine the intensity of white for a newborn child,and how dry the air would feel in its throat; a fish could scream with shallow breaths on the shores of its lungs. i am spinning my head around like a puppet whose tangled strings are untwisting, same cars, same lights. Shadows create a ground for what appears to be hands and written words, but the eyes will always strain the other two dimensions.

as in life, our organs -that's all they are- will skip the questions on the exam in favor of a more 'logical' thought matrix. Lined up like soldiers, each observation is shackled, then shifted in order, but never just one at a time. Suddenly the morning routine is jumping in my stomach, i am sick of this writing (how to yell at your own writing without actually writing it?).

something like the heart breaking in the jaws of a lioness, beats are choppy, then too shallow for support.

something like the wind devouring the innerts of an alley, so many bags and paper forgetting gravity as they are swept away.

something like water hoisted miles in the air, then left at the alter of heaven; left to fall without guide.

something like the way i feel writing right now, a supposed logician whose schizophrenic visions alleviate the pangs of reality.