Saturday April 25 2009, 4:47 PM:
Forest and light devour my cameleon windows. When it snows, the windows turn to moist stone. A cold, moist stone. A white, cold, and moist stone. When it pours, the cameleon turns to a depressing gray. Why must gray, and rain make such a depressing duo? Blue and rain go together quite well but compared to rain and gray, rain and gray is rubbish! And on days like this, elaborite shades of green and blue. Occasionaly the rainbow cameleon turnes from abounding colors to blinding shades of yellow and orange. It's all in a days work!
What to write next... That question is like a green light. It automatically makes you go. You ask that question, then you write it! Then the ball starts rolling, it nevr stops. Frictionless. No force on the ball. The ball is it's own force.
My head feels heavy. Like 2 tons of melting steel. The heat here is somewhat like the inside of an oven. My head feels hurt. My head feels like it is abbused by our enormous star. The juice is being sucked out of my head. Ounce by ounce. Minute by minute. Sicker and sicker. The juicer tampers with my mind...
I hear record players in my head. Broken, stratching. Stratch, write, stratch, write.
The eyelids, they race... Away, to to each other every second.
An interval for my friend, dearest friend. A passion for CLUE. I salute you, dearest friend. But, I must tell you that my juice supply is running low. My condolences to your ever less fun...fun. To bad I won't be there...
I have hit a brick wall, I must play. Excuse me while I go solve a mystery!
What to write next... That question is like a green light. It automatically makes you go. You ask that question, then you write it! Then the ball starts rolling, it nevr stops. Frictionless. No force on the ball. The ball is it's own force.
My head feels heavy. Like 2 tons of melting steel. The heat here is somewhat like the inside of an oven. My head feels hurt. My head feels like it is abbused by our enormous star. The juice is being sucked out of my head. Ounce by ounce. Minute by minute. Sicker and sicker. The juicer tampers with my mind...
I hear record players in my head. Broken, stratching. Stratch, write, stratch, write.
The eyelids, they race... Away, to to each other every second.
An interval for my friend, dearest friend. A passion for CLUE. I salute you, dearest friend. But, I must tell you that my juice supply is running low. My condolences to your ever less fun...fun. To bad I won't be there...
I have hit a brick wall, I must play. Excuse me while I go solve a mystery!
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