How one Idea is 1000

He cut all his exgirlfriends out of his photos.

I question the rationale of there only being 24 hours in a day. I look at my exboyfriends. They look the same, though some fatter. I look at my bowl of soup. It looks so big for just being soup. I swear off reading articles about people I respect for reasons that will not make sense to anyone to explain. I feel good about this. I ask the timeless question: how much sleeping can I do before I have to wake up? The timeless answer: too little. I question why I like this religious music so much if I am not a religious man. I think perhaps I should stop reffering to myself as a man. I consider pen names: so many family names that should be used, & so many instances one wants to disguise themself. I study the trails of ash on my plywood desk. They have ground themselves in there forever as some sort of worm work reminder of what I've done. I wonder about what would have happened if my mother had presured me to continue playing the violin instead of letting me stop because I was too lazy to practice. Perhaps I could have been a better person, or perhaps I would still be wearing stirrup pants & writing songs about recycling. Not that there is anything wrong with recycling. Despite myself I keep remembering a dream--well, many dreams--but one dream in particular. I wish I knew more and could determine wether or not it meant anything. This makes me wonder wether things would be less complicated if I did not posess a body that was made to carry children. This body brings hormonal complication. I return again to an idea that my grandfather is not going to live forever, and though it is being highlighted by these current events on the opposite coast, I am not capable of fully believing it is real. Because what can one do from over here. What can one do to accept that idea. This one, so far, cannot.

I had some great conclusion here, which I have lost. Better to leave it that way. Leave it lost. Do you ever stand on the highest part of the roof and think of flying? What could we do if we could fly? ....Things would be so different. Let's got to Savannah in the fall. Go to Denver, and then Savannah. That one accidental beach. We will find it again, even if we only find something yards away.

Little peices of road feed me, so I am always full. And I am always hungary. And I have never been so stationary. Let us move....Always let us move....