Wist Cavalcade

All I ever wanted (feels like Maslow's hierarchy and nitrogen narcosis collaborated on this radical new form of bitter and my claim that I had prior art was drowned in the scuffle) is someone over for pizza and to do math. Thunkthunkthunk. I method act through my own motivations -- I don't trust them insofar as they don't make sense and what else starts with 'lo', anyway? Have me pokin' around at at fossilized thesaurus trying to find closure or New Jersey or the Western Kettles or some other tropane collagen stork battle gimletting the waffle batter of the world, and amidst hoovering from glotip to mysterious nonmentions of fumarase deficiency (makes whatever aing-tii circulatory fluid I might have reach its triple point and then gap-junctioning through bleary rhombs of superannuated emotional supernatant (didn't really need any more incitement to personal paranoia or what have you, and without the desire to cast ingots of bitter and leave them in odd positions in my hippocampus, yes of course I miss! But what's a fastidious accountant of keta to do besides encourage more fermenting and fomenting of my wither-worn and winter-bleary spirit? No final proscenia? Vial of eggnog goes splat. Splut. Velar nasal pith strung against the mire, strung in spider-silk and week-old halvah and dizzyingly cantilevered against the cat tails, here's my hand (usual recitations), here's what I have to offer, smush, so and so forth, froth. With dream memories now that I can't make sense of and adumbrations on my time and attention which mired in a mixture of crestfallen and forlorn like some fastidious psychologist from Brussels in 1928, excuse me, psychoanalyst querulously demanding how I like my cheese stir-fried the Maillard reactions are quite fetching have you managed to get to the shore yet and other burgeoning-on-incomprehensible questions about how many molecules of adenosine triphosphate the mitochondria in my feet have synthesized since I last felt satisfying hygge of any sort, shoo away, shoo away anxious to escape these irritating and unobservant questions, and I feel like interjecting "if you were really paying apropos attention to my current fractious state and have suggested incitements to a waking bilita mpash, I might have listened, but otherwise this mockery of accounting is just more salt on my wounds" I wanted the gazebo in the country, the one where the sky is torrid and yellow with ozone and the rain is from a supercell thunderstorm, and you could smell the geraniums and the tang of tea or ice cream as the comedy played on the laptop with its remaining charge during the power outage. My isolation coping mechanisms have kind of returned with unanticipated ferocity: persist, yes. Thrive, certainly not. Ache: quite definitely: here's more lego using language with no flair or magic, stuck in the same repetends, not ethereal, drab, dry, and I'll ache. I don't know what you feel over there, of the frond, but I feel sadness now and again. Time for the neroli oil, the crushed leaves of sedra, oil of the kernel of the apricot, sage and comfrey while they are still warm, and pizza, and a whole lot else besides, and new math papers, and so many impossibly heartwarming anagrams of 'check a letter isomer: hug'.

Post (Gone)

Sinuses stuffy, the wind-salt strewn of the sea perorating as local dioramas -- microcosms of sand surf enjoying misarticulated relationships with one another: how long did the hermit crab spend looking for a new home this morning? There was a beetle on the beach which had an argument with an aluminum drink container: both of them came out on the losing side of that argument. Sand grains chirp to each other about the last time their silica was involved in volcanism. Sea-spray, bromine bromeliads, natural incense precessing around classical unities barycenters (some of them performing remarkably adroit Baryshnikov impressions in the delightful concert of the motion of centers of mass of various dynamical systems, interacting to and fro'). Whene'r I might inherit succour of any sort, I do so in some attempt to sing harmony with what cosmic song I can make out -- if only in a rudimentary way, from these dramas and trioramas, from these triremes and mythological scents ramified in my own mythopoeiome: the sungull, the sandcantilever, the Oxid, the Runnymiid and Balacthener, the Gatesneeper, the Mystereography. the Bedecked En, tales and context froth reference leaps whose epics the beach dramas only hint at: I have a thing to do, as they say, no religious encrustation of misguided deontic motivation, just the construction of a bespoke conveyance for the froth by my own delirious and somewhat essentially immiscible-with-brief-context-span epistemologies of the world: to me, the froth is zany, but I can never be assured that it will even pass the perception threshholds of others too invested in industries opaque to me: no bother, no need for any cognitive prescriptivism and its contrary-to-diversity approach. "I had coping mechanisms prior to, and now, well, I see they're functioning peachily. I tried to put as many of my cards on the table as possible (although I don't particularly like that metaphor, as I do entertain antipathy for unnecessary arbitraries conducted for their own transience, and not to any larger structures which might pass unto the ethereal outside the perception thresholds of the very wary), but I am a juggler, not a dancer: I persist on the basis of anticipated catches and throws, not of unpredictable sequences of pulls and pushes whose second and higher order derivatives resemble elf-Braille and are unfriendly to my eyes. Here is this thing, what does it mean to you? Or this other thing?..." the note trailed off. Did I wander down to the village and purchase a two asulnctoro postal voucher and have it posted to an address in the Sahefepan Prefecture? I can't say definitively.