Gleam like never-gleamed before butter, on a roll or hot tator, something inspiring, that cuts your throat with unabashing holsumnes.
Travesty on the borderline.
Hard to come by in the evening. Questions questions. Every day the ball grows and goes faster and faster. I've begun to see and be blinded, what's to say when the end is near. What's to fear when who's to say if it ever will end.
Scared, Scarred, Scurrying, and fetching. Hope for the truth in a violent craziness escaped. Roar through the gates upon a giant mound of everything, and wave.
There's a stair
out there,
where the air,
and the flair,
by compare,
UNDERWEAR.
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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