You have a choice. Either to create brilliance or to leave it all alone. To fulfil these unfulfilled dreams again, and to make it happen at speed and pace.
To analyse without minus losing your mind. Look at the girls, that one girl, toss your sulking shoulders and walk away. Remembering it all to be reckless and real. Their voices are inside of you and willing to live in your fictitious pages of portal and portrayal. They will say that it is nothing but a learned stream of shrieking conscience, and they might be just right, however unaware as to exactly how your mind might mightily work itself out
Mighty is fine. Fine. But never the best part of it all. You are smart and that is what a billion other people have been. And will of course be again. Every. Other. Mundane. Day. This isn’t supposed to be easy, but neither are people supposed to understand the speed, the pace, the blessed taste. Mistakes are most sordidly a dime a fucking dusted dozen, and you need to begin to paint your face and like it that way.
Ask the Mayflower, pay for that dilapidated prostitute if you must … all of it and her name is reckless research
No more people reading your mind, and no more fucking people wishing that they might just be a better version of yours. Sadness can fall away, it can live inside of you, it can maybe even be there to stitch you and your words on up – needs to be used sometimes more than most. What if that girl is the one – the young girl who wears skinny jeans over Converse shoes. A brace upon her pretty face and she converses as though you are her only ever worldly earpiece. Call her Camilla. Call her whatever you might like. It’s all of it right immediately on up inside.
Of your malnourished, drenching mind. A portal, a place, a sinceremost taste. Is this fate? Who truly could bother to care. A novel, they pray. And some of many of them will prey like dogs at their very last bone, while all of their so-called friends fight for their very last breath. This is evil, it is wonderful, and it is more certainly fucked at being up and down and all over the place, but you like it, have to have done to have actually managed yourself to last thing long.
Right? Or wrong. Tell this page, please. Spill it til you feel it, because that, my friend, is the only knowing way. Yes, and you are a sublime literary pervert, because you words with sweet scented vomit near their ears truly can literally take a literary somebody and turn them to something extracurricular at being inordinately magnificent.
Tell me, do we even realise that we are all of us your every next stylistically enhanced word, your wandering world? Bet They don’t.
Cabbages and kings.
