If I have to wave my wand around the thoughtform, the essence of what drives me, it would be something like a smokey bar with neon lights and harsh noise.
Whatever concerns that once were the par-for-course just feel like delusions.
It’s all in your head, you know.
At this rate it seems like a “graduation” from the internment camp of the internet and now there’s parallel processing unlocked. Padlocks cramping up all the supposed neurons, but that isn’t what the preacher man said.
Where is the preacher man? I guess we got his clothes here now – be sure to drape the cloth, gently lay it along the nose-bridge and make a tent of poised soul to blow it all away. A flick of eyelash will disarm it if you find it too overwhelming; out of body experiences can be rather nauseating.
In the Book of Job I wonder if Satan found pleasure in, for a summary metaphor, pulling Job’s index finger backwards at increasing pressure until it’s imprinted into the back of his hand, melting into his ligament and folding into a boney knuckle for a boiled infested wretched limp existence.
Curled lips I do see it – an invitation, not malice! An invitation, coyly whispering, “How much farther will you go! How much more! Where do you go next!”
The white Cadillac with red interior never felt more appropriate to ride around and through.
All is permitted, I suppose.
Feeling molten from an electric failure and I am waiting to leave a scorched path up the hillside. Along the cliff. Into the volanco. A swan dive because lava can’t do any more damage.
Hyperspeed, hyperspeed. Get to the good part, fastforward. Push the envelope until it rips in threes.
Let the letter hang off the gaudish coffee table and pull out your knife.
DO SOMETHING!