I want to write like a damn waterfall.
About: Something cool … A spacecraft? A creek? Perhaps a person, who died last Tuesday from consumption of lead via headwound?
Only a little funny. And too dark. It doesn’t flow well. Does not. At all.
I’d like to see a baseball game next year.
Not telling a story at that point.
Go the creek, state it was intentional. No one will believe. It’s a damn lie that you’re dying, dude, but I can see why one would think that. Again, it’s too serious to tell whether it’s a joke. So skip this part. Skip this part.
My Face: When you’re playing identities and sacrificing as many as you collect. :/ When the doctor doesn’t know if it’s a symptom or a cause. :/
Ten men went down the street to the creek and found a log that they chopped up and made into a boat and set it drifting on the river. A mile down they found the rapids and there was that they could do. The boat wouldn’t hold ’em and their limbs wouldn’t float ’em and they set about drowning in the water. Whoever got the view wished they hadn’t.
Macabre today is yesterday’s depression, floating up the coast with bold predictions but petering out when the moment finally came. The sailors weren’t disappointed but their great skills at navigation avoided the worst. That killed some, too.
The Thing sits in his small front yard and watches him, his Stone of Atonement. Jealous are its eyes and bold are its words that he hears dimly, the last drifting thought of fading dreams. The pressure it affects in him raises the barometer and the blood. He watches his Stone and waits for it to go away, for it is better to sit and do nothing so that life’s desires may not be prevented. It is wise that procrastination keeps the goal distant and locked far away, for it is better to dream and do nothing. Let the designs of your maker make themselves known.
A lot of people sound really serious when they write.
Really fucking serious.
It sounds mad when you curse.
Perception is a curse.