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2000-05-04 I decided this past weekend to write a long essay about cargo pants and neckties, branching out to explain the whole of the human condition in clear, lucid prose. It will never be written. Better I should write a story about a guy making phone calls to his friends to apologize for something that happened years ago, or a woman who wants to get laid but is scared of the man who wants her, or a guy in another town, broken hearted because it was for the 'best'. It's better to show than tell. I don't have anything to tell you; I just like the talking and the display. -- i have a fantasy of lying in a field in or in a clearing, (quiet) or just in a backyard, (home) and feeling the grass around me (little knives) and the coldness of the fall creeping in, (thank you) away from the crunch of car wheels over glass in the road (assholes) and past the sound of voices. (just shut the fuck up for once) i replay the moment of my neck touching the grass, (her soft fingers) looking up to the stars, (eyes of black) holes in the sky letting through light from heaven, (just a glimpse) no halo of electric light from any city. (turn off the lights baby) -- be willing to not believe what you see. be willing to admit you are wrong. this is just a web site created by hobbes |
