Apr. 08, 2004 @ 5:22 p.m.

This comes to you from the lost and found bin of my somewhat poetry-like scripture.

These are my thoughts. My brain flowing though my fingers, finding semi-permanent life on wide-ruled paper. I can’t believe anyone can do this constant worry and wonder, consistently conspiring against myself and all rational of logic. To place myself in a permanent state of second guessing and confidence regression seems less reasonable than trying to write my thoughts onto brown construction paper through a creative misuse of orange juice. My stomach likes to knot itself. I think it wants to be a pretzel. She makes me want to vomit because I failed my secret mission. Only in my world would I associate her with vomit. Imagined and optical perfection is my skewed perception. Everything she says goes through mechanical lines at a sugar factory in my right brain’s hemisphere. Ever so sweet, you make this seem. Ever so pure, you make this feel. "Ever so surreal" rings mockingly in my head as the tips of your fingers melt around mine like a pile of sugar slumped onto a paper plate out in the summer rain. You are my golden jelly bean and you’re fading faster than a flame engulfed television that is busy displaying the contents of a two second long video tape that's feature flick is of the last shooting star to ever burn out just before the earth explodes, ending playback. Bash in my television then rip through my speakers, because you are the giant wrecking ball that is breaking my heart like straw, burning the remnants in flame. Snap. Crackle. Pop. There goes my ability to breath.