pressing

What is step one?
- Making an excuse not to do it.

This is the lie that drags him down, little by little, and makes him cry. There is a thought for those who worry about this. The excuse never is that he simply cannot work through the trouble himself, to make his horizons broader or never discover anything new. This is a state of mind. Tomorrow he will be better, because he won’t be taking the pills. The pills are what make him stupid - this is the case he repeats to himself every day.

The repetition of painful memories makes us cold. The precipitation in our minds haunts us every day, and we hope that without these pills we will be able to walk away from the homes we have created for ourselves. These pills are the pages we want to write, before we pause in a daze and hope that karate memories and dragon skills bring hopeful work to chaotic dreams.

We want the world to come together without any trouble. This is the problem that haunts me. I want to think, read and write. I want to learn and breathe intellectual fire. I want to save the world and add great things to the public discourse. These days breathe fire on me, and the waves of this ocean of light panic my senses. I have nowhere to be or to go most of the time. The only hope I have is that the righteous water brings my heart towards the light, and away from the lazy flame of desire - that sinful breathe of peace that comes with sitting alone in a room and staring straight ahead, breathe cold in the air and watching nothing in particular.

There is a comatose line that watches him. These sovereign thoughts make his mind spin.  There is very little that bothers the kind of weapons that watch towards the heavy line, there air is that of the fiery depth of the soul, there are megalomaniacs here and there, but some of them really want to fix things. The doctors get no respect, and they just want to help us get jobs. They want us to drive prices down, to contribute to society. They want us the pay taxes. There is no trouble nor triumph in that. It is simply their path.

The doctors are spat on. They do not get treated the way they should. They are somewhat like cops, they simply represent an authority figure. They are called down every day by creative people so they must be strong. I doubt the doctors were going to hurt themselves, but they fell ill with the warpaint of tomorrow, the crime of the direct mail impulse, those drones they are sending to sell me for nonsense without me leaving my house.

What is the government doing with drones? The same thing they are doing with psychiatry. The megalomaniacs have more ample welfare states, which is an offering to their people to keep them in their graces. These are the weapons that breathe the light within the thoughts that are taking the little places with the re-reading of the valuable thoughts, because I must find the liberal way to bring the father of morality towards us. There it stands, the gibbered nonsense that wants to be a phrase, but will never stand alone without another thought of gibberish. Everything is a story. Everything is a lie.

This is the balance, the speakeasy for FOX News. The people that read the National Post need to learn the places of those that do not, and the other way around. We must breathe more, and fight to become the high letters of the door. We must breathe less, and make sure that the man who calls me to sit and stare into space is not allowed to drag me into the muck. That feels like a painful order, because for some reason my wanting to keep writing hurts his feelings. If I don’t want to be next to him it makes him very sad, and very mean. I believe the former, and I experience the latter. There is shelter in a world without him.

That I am looking for the extremely strange makes me susceptible to it. It opens the airwaves to the alternate reality, and it brings my heart down to a social atmosphere, requiems and openness begone, damned to the haunted reality and feared by anti-social weapons. I do not want to belong to this club with the damned man who sits and drags me into the muck. I fear that I drag him to the muck as well, and he just sits there cursing and doesn’t care.

What did we find out? Where is the weapon without cause? There are only a few chaotic writers, they do not fall out of shadow, nor make sense of the world without finding the water. The crescent takes shine to the weapons for sensors, and I can believe in the findings or better thoughts that take sensory kinds of lights in the attic and they watch from the window to be certain he’s taken and he watches from the light of the cell phone without malice, because he must know that you care about him.

As one can try to learn, and the cold whips the outside, I can be fearful of watering cans and bring weapons to the hundreds of protesters who are willing to shoot. These are the brought days and they hear her wait for the candle and the door, and they shot her in the back, because she has brought the hope without the better world - and the way is the shining, hideous face and he breathes fire, and he pulls at her so that she cannot watch from the hall.

There is a better world than that, somewhere within the weapons. These shadowed thoughts that watch without hiding and hurt us, they are the black eyed children or the fighting kinds of fearful thoughts that hurt my hands and feet and make it hard for me to work. I am well rested, and I am fearful of the water, because I am the watchful eye they see without the water, well, I can believe that I must be the healthy one and I am the shadow made of fighting kinds of breathe and the healthy kinds of writing.

This T-Shirt travelled 20 000 miles. The global innovation brings the world together. This doesn’t matter to me or the doctor. The cotton that was sent to the other side of the planet to be woven into thread makes my country less strong. The containers are what made that possible, and it is going to take off pennies per shirt. These are the brides of God, those beautiful people who made our clothing. They are the reason people like us are on the pills. We would have done something about it, but they fucked us because we were already willing to take druids. There it was, shaped like that.

There is a shape to this, because the leaders watch without the lights on, there in their sheds and they tamp the weapon down with the lights on while coming there. I can believe that all the shadows watched them - with the shiny kind of thoughts that salvage there. Ha! I can be white with fear and the light comes and saves me because I must because I must because I must because I must. There is sometimes reason for the fear. There are shadows on the wall, but the mind hurts because he hurt the light on the ratified line - he smashed the head into a mantel as a child. This head injury was his first real memory.

These are the wasted years, me, mindlessly repeating the radio, typing into the machine. The pages will be saved, shared on the internet, but sheltered from the world and with water and the careless thought I cram all I can in one of these sentences. I read once that this is the only way to be a real writer, one just has to write.