I pretend I'm a writer when I'm not pretending I'm a rockstar. Both of these things may or may not take place in front of the bathroom mirror.
You probably have no idea what my posts are about, and that's the way I like it. True art fails to yield to analysis.
Self-indulgent biography, attempt at humor, pseudo-intellectual Nietzsche quote, etc. etc. etc.
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Companion v. 3.0: Defining Definition; Drowning the Drought
The oxygen seems a bit thicker today, I’m finding the need to breathe quicker today. A dense fog is hanging about, and I’m travelling blind. This nameless condition is one I keep close, and despite my prescription, I’m undiagnosed. The sky is unsettled as darkness and light are combined. The trade winds collided as nature provided the moment that her fate and mine were decided, I’m feeling a pressure that only could come from the skies. My pupils contract as my joints start to spasm, I’m lifted above and beyond my dark chasm and into the hurricane forces inside her eyes.
Now, in the distance, the storm front seems viscous; a thick wave of mud creeping in. No sign of horizon, an uncompromising anonymous, ominous din. Dark clouds are stirring, our storm is occurring, accompanied by blinding light, for an angel is present, her skin incandescent, marked by constellations of night. Cracks in the earth spring up from the core, the storm unrelenting, the light brightens more. Buildings are crumbling, trees are aflame, but we still haven’t given the monster a name. The onlookers beckon a moniker, a title to tame the tumult about, but the tempest is shameless in remaining nameless. The onlookers settle without.
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