Someone reminded me recently of a live journal I used to keep almost 4 years ago. I haven't looked at it since then. In fact, I didn't even remember my user name.
I may cut and paste some of my entries into this blog. I will date them though.
This one below is one I liked.
The golden hour...
"How does a bull sneak up on you and shove it's horns through your back?"
Raised that bull since it was a baby. Bottle-fed and nursed it into it's nubs. Complimented it's entry into adulthood and waxed his horns. Marvelled at nature while watching it eat the green grass found, slain and relocated for him.
trained for the stage since she was five. She underwent the knife awake with the lights off under religous eyes. Her milk shook around warmed by the fire under her ribcage, her ass smiled over her head and she was always there to cut to ribbons the red flags clutched in determined fists, even when her day found her inside out in the trashcan under more trash.
"what's going on?"
clicks and buzzes enhance the experience of describing whats outside the window. nothing enhances the experience of trying to describe what's inside.
Alive.... Ask me when the horns are in my back again and milk is gushing through my chest, and you can see the veins in my heart at the bottom of a glass, with your beacon of light and your xray specs slapping fat fingers down like a fag on the new tongue and feeling light headed... because you have an opinion.
learn a new language.