Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Thursday, June 14, 2007


Step. Step inside.
Plant a kiss on these eyes.
Stop. Stop it or.
Fuck, I've never felt more alone.
I've never felt more controlled.

I've never felt like winning it all.
I've never felt that I couldn't at all.

Tried to stop me
but they couldn't
and won't
because they apply simple measures to a complex mind
and a simple tactic won't prevent the crime.
Just a glimpse into the past and I remember who I was.

So I recall what the Chinese lady at the museum once told me:
Nothing matters if your inspiration is concentric.

The devil made a much finer job at trapping my soul:
He knew, and didn't stutter.
He hushed, and didn't panic.
The devil knew me well, and waited
For me to go back,
hungry happy high angry nappy nigh and every now

and again we both get bored with the world because no one wants to come in
and take a chance.
It's too much pressure for simple minds, and an unnecessary alibi for complex ones.
It's hard to digest.
Sitting outside, it's never sunny enough
for the Devil and I,
it's never fully enough,
as we sip our cup of tea.

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