Once we're clear of that, we can shift focus back to fantasy lands and dreamscapes. There isn't much more distance to cover and I am happy for that. Excited for that. There are times when I feel like every other word is about some future date when the resources are at their correct levels and processes have synchronized and the planets have lined up into something close to a grand cross and if I am twenty minutes in to 5th Element while listening to acid jazz with my heaphones in my key tray and I've already consulted my little sister and am suitably numb mouthed from too many cigarettes and just the right amount to dissuade me from running to the gas station to purchase more and the moon is a waning gibbous on a clear night with rain in the forecast for early before the sun comes up with the option to sit outside with a fire at any point prior barring the anything prior to the immediate because it did not rain the day through at work, where I box myself in to unrealistic expectations as a way to never have to actually execute anything. If you never pull the trigger, you never have to learn whether or not there is more to learn about what you want to do. Whatever you have conceptualized is its best and most perfect form. You never have to translate. I wanted to have children. I can have children. Meet my family! It's almost like every idea is that part of you other people talk about and love, but if they ever did meet you, the rest of you, they'd screw their nose up and rub their squished shut eyes like they just saw an apple snap loose from a twig and fall up to disappear into the sky.
I get very caught up, but I have not forgotten my own needs. It eats me out from the inside, but I never forget the gnaw and the sound of it and the feel of it, the blood cough taste of it, nose running, water eyed mechanics of it. They scream at me. I'm moving forward as fast as I can. I swear, I am. The days disappear swiftly. The nights are restless, strapped to a mattress. Fear lurks in corners. Cats ask questions. Notes are taken on walls and skin and misnamed folders. Bite a lower lip and squeal from the top of the foothills of the mountain range, the clouds ahead of the temperature front doing strange things above the peaks and the ground bellowing thunder lake swells and strikes days distant, birds moving town in brunch sky above. Sip. Nod. Please pass the olives. Cross a leg and scribble onward.
///Sylvan Esso - "Uncatena"
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