My hands smell like stale sweat and eucalyptus. My hair is damp from the open air of west coast winters, and I can't remember. Can't recall the fleeting whispers of my Muse from scant hours prior.
It's a silly and dissatisfying game. At the most unfortunate times, she tickles my mind with tiny revelations. I can't scribble down her words fast enough. Committing them to memory is the same as carrying water with a colander, and every time, I'm disappointed and surprised when all that remains are beads of lost opportunities.
I wish I could just smash my head against any tensile surface, transferring ideas by way of kinetics and osmosis. Leaving an outline of metaphors, blood and plasma. Better than this insufferable methodology of trying to pull inspiration from thin air; a parlor trick of a mind magician. Making an obvious illusion into epiphanic realities.
10:40 p.m. - 2014-11-20
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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