reentry

wet spots beneath my outside thigh, the miseducation leading to ideas of politicans as the most un-idealizable representation of our publics, yet can we say this quality is really pertinant to one's positive wealth when we idealize katie holmes; tom cruise. there is, however, the mass produced, media saavy, passion of the christ's jesus. what's his name again?

white wine has been spilt on many things. the red suade journal, vintage international's copy of carmencita, my pants ofcourse--the paper towel sopping it all up. i'll fall into the incubus for strange nostalgia's sake. vanilla creme candle burns with an exboritant wick, while the black soot feels a subtle tick on my neck. anxiety jots in the bloodline. will it all dry up never to have known it to be there or will a smell remain pungent, or, perhaps, rings. vladimir nabokov writes his afterword as if lolita had been a necessity of his language and brain development. where did the support swing from within him?

it has been one of those days that have been nagged by a deeply burrowed battle. we live in a world-- how prosaic it sounds already, dissapointed?-- where songs of such capable diverity spout out from music players by the thousands. never ceasing except when technology skits.

i find it especially important to continue reading by the literature classics but it doesn't suffice to fill up, tape up, impeccably cork up the remains. at times it unleashes the most indelible possibility. it makes the jaw gape to think of comparison and characterization. i know it may sound silly. word choice does it, too. some books will take one word and ingrain it somewhere deep into the text, easily sucked down or lost, passed through. but to the known it lingers inky and permanent. words like soporific, fey. never stringent to the milky purpose. okay some may find this [my] style excessive. strike the complexity of complexion?

there were men, more like boys, sitting in the entrance to the country of holland from the amsterdam custom's exit playing songs on their guitars as a welcome. it was the welcome to a period of pleasure devoted to time. i lost and gained many things. as with all ventures to the outerworlds, don't they all remain if their meant to? godlike seems only found in the irretracable hours of the Haze. is that why h.h. isn't so guilty? we are all victims to the sufferings of what someone at some point deemed irrevocable sin. then, their lies the forgiveness of age. the wearing down, dulling, dumbing, sucking stale the ignorance and passion, perhaps more the sheer wilingness to be stupid. not the vigor. i know, not the vigor. this is their claim. the older.

the camping trip could be epic if participation was mandatory. before the roommate leaves to costa rica. why do we all leave? why are questions asked like that more as support for our insecurities and fears?

a goal for the next days: to avoid those things from the yesterdays that make us cringe because of victimization, fear, and sin. reality will always gnaw the boxcat-mangostone.