Much better. Aware of the cost, I can slide by on the tax. All gone, every bit that I hated, any acknowledgement of what might have been a plus was submerged deep beneath the hate, the time lost, and something has to give, somewhere. Sometime there may be a gate, a signpost saying where I enter. This is expressly the time that I don't care. Remember the source, not the conduit. Feed me.
Juice, juice.
Last night sounded good; we truly need the whole of the sum, lest we be done. Where's those key members? Help on the stray. It's hard to sign up for some. We need the key. That. The. Then. Hapless. Victims. Grotto. Bourgeoisie. Hipnotists. HA!
One hand open to the wind,
to the light and the sun,
One hand closed to the opened,
to the right and the one,
Hand together with the rest
opened to closure and you never guessed.
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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