Hit the recorder; start the recorder:  I’m just about ready to go off on a dizzying tangent and let fecund thoughts percolate and give birth to realized jewels; the sea to shining sea and mountains majesty stuff isn’t impressing me much anymore but a beautiful song is still a beautiful song and this is still my land and it is my home and I suppose it’s your land and your home, too; a nutmeg sparkle will ease my tender soul but I’m rising up out of lesser consciousness; horrible consequences could be the end result; the fertile soil is yielding plenty of ripe fruits harvested with false patriotism filling the countryside and thoughts of rural New York state and pulsating rivers twisting through the mountains.

I’m certain the fog will lift soon and there will be a completely lukewarm midday and maybe the city will provide some shits and giggles; for now I’m just pressing on and trying to catch a buzz or at least a brief rush off of heavy weightlifting; curling those dumbbells and raising the iron; well movies aren’t going to make my life more exciting; it’s all in the watching; everyone else gets all the action while I sit here alone off to the side on my own but I’m befallen by a fit of hysterical laughter and the feelings get stronger that everything I’ve been taught has been all wrong and the lies are aplenty so what else can I do?

I need to defend myself from the onslaught of meteor showers and acid (not the good kind) rain; I must find a way to journey through the mist and find my destination as the fog retains its mask and lonely silhouette figures having to walk through the empty streets with no more rhyme or reason; as there is no more reason to idle about at home; it’s all really a matter of making it a reality on your own.




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