The want to write and create is somehow off set by the mummer of the documentary on UFOs somewhere behind me. Added to this, the knowledge that at some point, I have to take the bin through the week old snow to the top of the road is another nail in the coffin of self expression.
I've stopped now to think and the flow gets stilted. It's like I have to mentally unfocus my mind, just let my fingers move and the words come. They don't necessarily make sense but the more I do it the more I realise they don't have to. Let all this be without plot as life itself is. Let all tumble forth in unlisted and uncollected nonsense. The key to it is don't aim for a theme, leave that to those who tell me what I should be listening to and watching, how I should view others' behaviour and be aghast at the demise of western civilisation. It's not new. Time and before the same outrage at it all. This too shall pass, like all else. Yawns and brushing back of hair. The bin waits and I must answer the call of the coloured receptacle that ,as we speak, holds the remains of my consumerism. The bones of my processed prey in glass and plastic. Again the flow stops, too much thinking and reading of what I've written. Those who would view this and expect lucid comment I apologise . This isn't for you.
The bin waits no longer. The trudge through the underlit gloom must happen.
As much as we try to stop it, the cold of the this alien winter seeps through the bricks and slowly,will cover us in our sleep.
I've stopped now to think and the flow gets stilted. It's like I have to mentally unfocus my mind, just let my fingers move and the words come. They don't necessarily make sense but the more I do it the more I realise they don't have to. Let all this be without plot as life itself is. Let all tumble forth in unlisted and uncollected nonsense. The key to it is don't aim for a theme, leave that to those who tell me what I should be listening to and watching, how I should view others' behaviour and be aghast at the demise of western civilisation. It's not new. Time and before the same outrage at it all. This too shall pass, like all else. Yawns and brushing back of hair. The bin waits and I must answer the call of the coloured receptacle that ,as we speak, holds the remains of my consumerism. The bones of my processed prey in glass and plastic. Again the flow stops, too much thinking and reading of what I've written. Those who would view this and expect lucid comment I apologise . This isn't for you.
The bin waits no longer. The trudge through the underlit gloom must happen.
As much as we try to stop it, the cold of the this alien winter seeps through the bricks and slowly,will cover us in our sleep.
I would like to train in Fowklift. English is no problems for me yes?
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