Writing
A garden money ground to death forcing feeling into aphorisms that spur the sun onwards through the death of an idiotic world without patience, temperance nor love.
Sitting still and etching out something equanimity within this contrived puzzle of neurological undulation.
A writer, I think, is a frenzied neurotic that is forever tapping away at some antiquated machine. As though the machine and the little brain throbbed as one.
The cars go left to right more than the paper.
Kick distraction. Toss it off into the wind and never pick it up again. No longer write down a place or sign a name.