a stream of consciousness, becomes a river, becomes a lake, becomes a sea


This is the space above the calendar. Above days and months. Above such trivial concepts as today and tomorrow.




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"Only a couple of generations ago, we the people sang the songs and told the stories and generated our culture from the bottom up.

But now, more and more of our culture is spoon-fed to us top down by corporations, TV networks and ad agencies.

We must reclaim our culture. Start telling our own stories again. Singing our own songs. Producing our own meaning.

Creating our own cool..."

- Adbusters Blackspot Campaign
The Revolution will be
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As a total slave to opinion I have to put this link here:

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But what the fuck do those guys know?

Absolutely fuckin nothing - that's what. This link makes my blog stronger for no other reason than I bothered to have it here.

Does that make this place any better? No - obviously not. I'm popular simply because I choose to be popular. I chose to make myself accessible to the masses.

But don't mistake my want of accessibility for respect...

...I still hate most of you more than you can imagine.




It's lonely down here. What purpose can a paragraph find at the nigh-bottom of this blog? Should I be humorous? Informative? Why am I here? I wish I was that other paragraph above the calendar. Oh the wonderful things I could do from up there...






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Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Waste Myself

I'll waste myself on strangers so I don't have to lie there alone.  The heat of something living to ward off the cold undead fingers of our once bright love.

What monstrous thing has it become?  Formless, whispering and chittering in the dark, driven insane by unbelievable circumstance.  Its words (your words) crawling over me - a swarm of angry thoughts that nip and bite and burrow.

The stranger mistakes my desperate grasp for lust - in moments we are lost in one another.  A hot burst of life against the night.  For that instant I feel release and released.  For that brief moment I am alive and free.

But in the final sex-rattle, the convergent lust-spasm, why do I name my demon?  Why is it always your name I scream into the dark?

This thought broke free from Solender's mind at 12:40 pm
It is still at large and should be considered Armed and Dangerous

xaos
March 1, 2005   12:56 PM PST
 
hell yes.
sanjie
August 17, 2004   11:51 PM PDT
 
Sometimes, you're the most melancholy of all.
The same thing just in different ways, but I'm waffling tonight so i'll leave for another time.


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