I feel like I should have a twitter account.

An account to document my haphazard dreams found written in-between an ashy white zig zagged papyrus. A pitter patter of my moments lost within ten seconds to some futuristic typewriter.

A good first step would probably entail visiting the site. This seems necessary to any global scheme that involves global blogging and public forecasting. So wait for me twitter, while I type that address into the bar...

Tweet. Tweet. TWAT.

Fallen Angels

I want to learn the drawl of an apricot.

I want to waddle in its commas and sit quiet in the pool of its surging glory. I want to see the chunks of an incessant tidal wave puddle round my feet while the remnants of her sticky chewed gum sit quiet on my tongue. I want to hear her slow flavors peel off into a liquid syrup.

I can feel her bumps meld into me like an electrifying tangent of roots waiting to be throbbed. It is here I wait, camped in the silky juices, head covered, sound throbbing deep within an empty hole.

I want to learn the drawl of an apricot.

Every stress in these sheets are morbid.

These crease marks line down my body as my frail legs begin their weighted escape into the world below. A sensation of frosted fangs begin to nibble on my toes as my weary patience waits for the remnants, of visions too dark to bear, to whisk way. A moons waiting fog settles in the distance.

Death, I saw again.

I touch my face and caress my eyes only to realize the too many dark corners that puddle underneath.

I am tired.
Very, very tired.

My mouth has begun to move and soon falls into its old practiced patterns of cadenced whispers.

"Not again...please...not again".

And while these haphazard gasps of silent screams take notice, I look to the presence of the beast found still. Its arcs, blacked in an undefinable, cascade down within my heaves of multiple breathtaking. Here I have found a beauty so content in torture, that god himself could not have helped but to stare in wonder.

Her rotting perfume was already beginning to dissect its pattern into my skin and while I waited for the slow decay to seep into my pores I could not help notice but:

I stink.
A rake of flesh has sent rancid sweat down my nostrils. A whiff turns something in my stomach. My mouth begins to taste like metal.

It is here, caught within the confines of the empty space of nothing that a conduit opens within my brain. A tremor sparked within the fault of its own word.

MOVE.
I don’t.

Its quiet patience is what has scared me the most, an unwelcome divinity lost within my caress. And so, while these currents continue to surge up my spine, I ask for an answer to a question that no one knows but it.

"Why?"

...

Several seconds pass by as I wait patiently for a resignation that I know I will not receive. A commerced transaction left unsatisfied.

My feet have finally touched the carpeted floor beside my bed and my sigh has grown audible.

Morning, comes again.

Sentenced Fingers.

I hate Old Spice. Here are the reasons why.

1. You do not smell like spice (False advertising, I am going to sue you).

2. You do however, smell old.

• Thats nasty.
• I now smell like death.
• The old guy sitting in the lobby now thinks I am his long dead best friend. Thanks. Assholes.

3. The plastic casing is red and the deoderant itself is blue.

• My fashion sense is sensative, and your contrast of colors is an impediment of good looking things everywhere. Someone should sue you for this.

4.  I do not own a sailboat, and your logo with said sailboat hurts my feelings.

• Fuck you.

5. Your deoderant gave me rash under my armpit once.

• Thank your gods that I did not use this on my pubes.
• Also, I am going to sue you for this, again. I also took pictures. I have evidence. 

So it seems Old Spice, my once dear friend, that we are at an impass. My need to sue you and your continued need to suck have reached a boiling point. Arm your pens and draw your contracts because today, you messed with the wrong body odor.

I call a jihad on you Old Spice, on one dirty perspired drip at a time.

*Note to the US/Canadian/EU governments: I am not a terrorist. And I apologize for the jihad comment. No more I promise.

PS: Please take me off your list. Paweese?

My gr. 8 best friend found my blog and read the post about him.

I felt really awkward when you told me because I wasn't sure weather to thank you for reading it or subtly deject the conversation into other realms of thought. But, I think we navigated out of dangerous seconds of unsure silence relatively skillfully.

Well done.

Truthfully, I am not entirely sure why I chose to tell you about that moment this way, but safe to say my tools of communication are often twisted and haphazard. Im just plain weird really.

Anyways to make a short story long, its good to have you once again back in my life as a real person and no longer a figment of memories long past. Always my brother. Much love Jesse, and we'll talk soon.