on occasion, i've had the idea that there are really a number of very different people swimming around in my brain-soup, talented people of course. why, just yesterday i absently conjured up an image of walking into the middle of a silent wheatfield and opening my wrists to the dusklight, not to die, mind you, but so that my blood could push its way into the black earth like roots while my body wilted and withered away. i must say, minus the blood, it was a very beautiful Marquezian image of natural immortality. then later, when i had to use the bathroom, i caught the image of myself in the mirror and lamented, "(sigh)... so much dick and so little to do..."

both are a bit odd in their own right, and these, of course, are things i would never discuss in polite society, but i think they each illustrate the power of unhinging the creative mind to perform above and beyond what is normally required in an average day. don't be afraid of your freedom, bitches.


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