Well, what's to be said, when all is done; something unlike the bad dreams, yet not quite the best. Well, it's a perspective, that's the key to understanding why we cling to our objects and how they stand in relation to us.
I can go on and on, and I'm sure some of you would wish for nothing more, but there are greater things to waste time on. That's not true. That's certainly not true. So we flow, on and on and on.
Feeling, sensation, a form to the touch,
When, at the bottom, you'd hope for such,
At the top you'd think it wasn't much,
And so 'tis always denied you.
Take a pleasure from out a dream,
Secure a thought from out the stream,
And hearken back to word's bright beam,
It can only be worth, true.
Begin the story about the tribe, the unholy alliance of land dwellers that ran throughout the plain with a bloody hand and tarnished soul.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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