madness
Everything I say from now on will be madness. And here is the first bit: I feel like a swinging pendulum. Not because of the swinging motion, but because I am making a tick-tock sound, as a grandfather clock does. And now I've gone on to be a rainbow. I don't feel, though, that my chakra, or my mental interior, is positioned right. Here I am, making the icing for the cake, with no cake in sight. This, my friend, is a serious philosophical quandary, and not one likely to be reckoned with at breakfast.
What I put on paper is “visions of a surreal life.” I have, since birth, been guarded by an invisible blue dog, and to this day I still don't regret it.
Should we have those cookies now?
The subject of whether or not one can have cookies is a subject which I find fascinating. Indeed, my cravings are an art form. Why, earlier today even there was a moment I experienced while eating alone at a sandwich shop that I would gladly live over and over for a hundred years, and I would be content that way. If that's not possible, an infinite jar of peanut butter cookies would be a very nice consolation.
As a child, the sofa- or couch if you prefer- is to you what the family car is to your parents. It is your vehicle. In the right frame of mind it can transport you anywhere you want to go, even to worlds that don't exist.
Pianos are enigmatic. What type of thing needs to be so big to make such fine a sound?
What speed causes one to be frightened by moving objects in a graveyard?
How does a lawnmower work?
~
2001