Music in the night.

In the lonely night, I hear a soul's outpouring. From the piano, I hear the highs and the lows. Uplifting sorrows and ambiguous resolutions punctuated by moments between notes. The occasional repetition of practice. Chaos in transition, to a singular truth repeated once more, to lift us higher, and once more with soul. And that is it. No more do I hear from this soul in the night.

Losing

I hate emotions, because they make me feel vulnerable. They make me feel weak. They kill my logic. They turn me into just a child...

and I'm lost, and scared. I'm afraid I'll lose everyone, and everything. Like a child, I think about running away from home...

When I come back to myself, I feel like I ran a thousand miles, all in the same room. I know I need to get out. Maybe the child has it right; run far far away, and start over again...

Stream Of Conscious 2013-04-05

Or very nearly. As close as it can be, as when how I run things through a filter, the words I deem appropriate or descriptive or honest next, right after the next last one before the first born last raised one. Two three four, cross the floor, and daisy runs a rainbow. Childhood mimes, distressed rhymes, and all the world is a giant blender.

I suppose at least. Depends on your perspective. Argue reality is standard irrespective of said "perspective" - yet people preach tolerance and practice hate. Raise money for peace and blow it all on war. Toxic wastelands accompany our addicts in uniform. A dirty dealer junkie providing the fix to the washed brushed polished shitstained suburban executive, who claims you are to blame for his manipulations.

Narcissistic solider boy wanna-be; the sort of marine who would be shot in the back the second the battle sets it. A boy born to be hung, a late term abortion via NATO standard cartridges. He may die so others may live. Accidents happen is what they'll say. Shallow depth of investigation, a burial too honorable for a dishonorable child.

A last pile of dirt marks the end of the road. Dead end, end dead. A pretty reflection in a filthy pond ditch. upside down and reflected; end dead.

Run run run round the clock, to the future, bring back things too soon, and being ahead of your time only pays well if you know the schedule everyone else runs on. iPhone Die phone lie phone try phone, Styrofoam, memory foam, soap foam, long roam in Rome Rome. Sell the fame, cellophane, wrapped in a cellphone. Cellulose treatment, tree-kept encampment, road rage ensnapment. La-di-da, fa-la-la.