Self-realization: in reaching for the Français-Anglais dictionnaire three-hundred forty-seven times every sixty seconds, don't doubt, I counted, I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates who said 'where's my twelve gauge?'
to conjugate? Verbs masturbate, too.
Clean that up, cuckoo.
One flew, dunked
in grape juice.
Frog legs, frog legs
Don't be so subjonctif.
Rest, take a break 'you' say, and who exactly are 'you,' for 'you' never tell, why you! it's the advent of the seventh day, or the seventieth day or the seven hundred, seventy-seventh day, and verily I shall wallow inn billowie pillouws wythe mellouwe smoothe-nesse. No, I don't smoke cigarettes, menthol or otherwise, nor did I just have kinky sex. Does having it in the mind count? And if so, should I be smoking one of those candy ones?
Alternating this and that and failing, I tried Martinu's lovely, dreamer-on-acid Julietta and various flesh-flaying platters of extra-fiery black metal romanticism -- save for Vreid, but who doesn't harbor an appreciation for a song cycle praising underground Norwegian resistance to Nazi douchebags? -- each on repeat, write, write, write, my hand hurts is that blood? What was the veredictum on the subconsciously-cultivated intertext sewn alternately into a patchwork of crafty, arpeggiated strophes and haphazard shotglass lines that lay upon the table, silent and motionless as a corpse? The opportunity to practice my three-point bomb, but I'm not finished, motherfucking brain, I swear it'll be pretty like flowers. Hey, are you 'you?'
Look, a patron. Are you 'you?'
Sorry, no clip of Who Are You. Either sift your vinyl if a true believer, in which case, Belial bless, or turn on local color if a godless heathen. Yes, 'you.'