Where I've been today
Rolling out of the deep recesses of subconscious halls paved with neurons and synaptic
I stood in the bathroom at Carl's Jr thinking of autoloansandfinancialaidandinadequacy. Someone took the trouble to transcribe their depravity to the tiled would-be-whiteness, something I would never do, yet something the darker corners of man's mind always identifies with. My office is such a far cry from the public scrawlings in lavatories -- all messages on those cubicle walls remind me of things I want to think about, the thin layer on the surface of a roiling deep.
My soul feels viscous. I pour myself over all I do today like cooling tar stretching, stretching, trying so hard.
The thoughts are a part of this syruppy mess, sticking to my movement like flies, stuck in habitual goo, stuck on all the things that are trying so hard to matter.
God, I want so badly to be relevant, to be tattooed with the rules of the real game, to be unimpressed with all else.