At the advice of my physician, atop a log anciently dead, long from home (both log and I), I suck sour grapes and sponge sunshine out the air; wind attempting to stop the pen, the pen obstinate, my dyslexic hand away from the keyboard betrays itself. Pen shift.
Whoa, pink sail, huge and near, sailing the beach, 'twould appear, dangerously fun, psychotically mild, vulture and rider share the game, wind game, evil venture, crushing power, random master.
Lighthouse sans namesake, dead, though beacon in sun, constantly aroused, waiting, ever virginal, lest you count the nymphonic fog, cloaking, cold, surrounding, still, loving not at all, yet enough?
Spicy gorge, head tethered, less than the worst, which wouldn't be good; leave the shining portal at home.
There is always Sunday.
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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