The state of mind is a concentration camp
The police nuerons are making me think the dialect we all choose is wrong. The anatomy of a problem is in all probability an analogy with a question, “how do I atone?” I don’t think I suffer but believe I dream, there are things that make dust and stone.
So the answer is a memorial? Buddy poppies. The worst thing about memory is reminding yourself you will never forget. So what if? Wild eyed weirdling. There is a strange abcess that fills itself with hope. Children. “Pull your socks up and put your boot down.”, the Beatles. Then the advice and Calamity Jane with needles. the unwavering, never near, horizon. Where it all goes is down the drain then toilets back up and start rising. like the moon and the stars, likely the sun too? Whatever, which to do? Choice? There are forever never moments. Wounds that won’t heal. Momentum that ignores all logic. The auction and the bid to buy the selling of lies. Lost burden, saddle, and whip. But you know where you buried your spurs. Go get them and a new piair of boots. The tomorrow dream has taken and plundered its root. Helen Keller was lucky as I look at how we all attempt to stay numb, blind, deaf, and mute. All the while puckering to look cute. Many poses for the derilect, huh’s, and the destitute.
