where’s that pirate when you’re needing a bit of flogging or a flagon of gruel. (there’s a flagon with the dragon in the wagon… or something.) ah, the tubercular RLS. hurrah!
contrariwise, where’s some gazpacho when you need it? (it’s too hot for hot, if you know what i’m saying).
i’m feeling that spike at the back of the throat, anyhow. like the milk’s all spilt and the tail’s curdled over. otherwise, there are no dreams that are recurring these days. only that creakiness upon waking and lumbering off to work. (do i lumber? early in the morning)
kilimanjaro’s a pretty respectable mountain, all in all.
Stumbled on this economic treasure trove of information. It seems like common-sense. I just wish most of it didn’t go right over my little brain. I caught the gist though: you can only run your bar tab so high, before the barkeep cuts you off… And what if you’re providing “protection”? Well, no one likes a drunk for long.
where are the reality ‘carnies’ when you need them? Me, all my tokens are runned out. and they don’t have the all day wristband riding free things anymore. that’s sad.
methinks being a floating saint would be more trouble than it’s worth…
all the rumbling goes to the head, fixing on that tiny print bobbilybobbling, but the eyes work good, ya. still reading sidewize, though. there’s that eyeless (crone?) sitting there, peering over the left clavichord, but mmmmmmmmm. she’s got heaps of heaps of heaps of bags (and the wheels go round) and are they spilling out onto the alleyway? maybe she’s hiding them all under that wide skirt of fabric. still, reading. but now she’s speaking (glance, notice that black, eyeless) underherbreath. speaking. speaking. into the left hear. but i can’t.
turning to that eyeless. looking straight into that dark pane, a glass darkling. (quack quack) and she’s still talking. but the words. oh there’s one. and oh there’s another. but they don’t add up. in any equational sense. to anything at all. it’s like the square root of -1 all over again.
but even after, she’s mumtering, not louder, still muttmering. “i’m afraid i can’t hear you.”
she stops then, like a spinning wheel gone soft.
“you’re a liar.” she says to me.
back to reading, feeling that blank darkness staring at my ear. until that festooned bag lady crawls off the bus.
Curvy and mesmerizing hand-painted architectural photos.
monkey brain chatter
right side of the brain
ah ah ah oh ooooooh hum
brain rational side
brain right side
dragons dream symbology
flaming goat heads
grant morrison interview
guys and left side of brain
left brain photos
left half of the brain
A pinhole camera photographer taking pictures of his life. Maybe this will give you some ideas? Hope so.