Brave Beast

Folder: 
Autobiography

 

Ugh, there is like so much to write about in this perceived wonderful world, but what I cutely coin as "Invisible Ideas"—that and a lack of scholar stifles my desired ability to style whatever it is I wish to mean.

 

I venture to get slightly intoxicated, sneaking like a sorry fiend through the sacred corridors where portraits of chaos are framed on pure-black walls. I quit quitting. I blatantly ignore the steady progress I have made with my dear principles, those respectable virtues I find myself lazy with and struggling to practice. I drink the delicious bourbon and smoke myself into decent delirium.

 

The neighbor coughs—rather hacks phlegm from deep in his lungs, intrinsic in our dread dimension, The Supreme Rhythmic Connection. I finish my savory puff and toss the cigarette butt into the flooded ashtray, remembering the recent rain. A pleasant dying sizzle and ceasing of wispy smoke vibrates our redundant void of torture long into the future paradox itself.

 

We learn and then we discern the better in moments like this, whether the fountain streams wine versus water spit right from serene lion sculptures. The receiver is often wide-eyed, wide-mouthed, wide-hearted into nothing ever sure enough even to conceive of new seasons as a measurement of something already known.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

---Glorifying Addiction---Starting to Journal---A Personal Piece---

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