Tuesday, August 08, 2006

drowse pokes its head out of unvowed silence

Little has seemed worth bothering to write about, went the introductory words of a man at the edge of the roof of a skyscraper, who grew excited by the peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. And then threw a tomato at himself. There was no audience. Evolution had done away with ears.

What? said Jenny to Bobby, who, groggy-eyed, was scratching himself.

Head-cold potential is present, but it is pretty out there where the sun is. Nevertheless, a curiously apathetic sari hangs over pasty skin.

Lately I’ve been learning: it’s easier to construct a bicycle if you are a bicycle mechanic than if you are not. There is microphotography, and there is photomicrography—not to be confused. Furthermore, you do not want to choose a dry title, and particularly not a cluttered title, if you are a complex creature. There is a burden of normality once your symptoms of chronic somnolence are cleared up like pimples. You have to complete transactions at the bank and generate pick-up lines to accommodate your newfound vitality.

It depends on context whether your predictability is boon or downfall.

A person who drinks coffee every day should continue to drink coffee every day or at least seclude himself from the public during abstinence.

This is an interlude. And so is this. Until I get a handle on these histamines and their lousy output of musical content.