Can I put my feet out while it’s moving? (As if the pilot in the film Contact, with J. Foster)
You know how it is: sh*t moving all over, out of focus, holding the right-eye in desparation to be on-target, without making the eyes pop-out, or everything– at least– is blurred, and not as I wish.

I guess it’s just auto-pilot so much of the time, and I knew I was f*cking-up just now, but– rather than delay the entire text, I figured it would really cave-in, and this bastard would wake. It’s too f*ckin’ bright out. { … I remember Martha: not as sweet, but breaks out. Don’t know– some kind of trouble, I guess. F*ckin’ sleep, all f*ckin’ day too. f*ck }

Last month, it was monthly. This month, it’s going to be two-weeks (now, walkin-shoes worn thin, as some memory of Lofstead)

I hope you didn’t blow out that entire chandelier of lifts just now.

What’s hot: stop it!

Of Running Sheep

These aren’t electric

Uneven, steady,
crooked and kind, this.
Freud stoop’d in, blurry-eyed
in time, an infant
sever, ending Never
in beginning
we be damned
echo voices
come behind
the dampening and flutter
quarrels, logo
fell on icey
hell rise on
intangible
what i write
about it thirsty
great big chocolate
nail the vein
inner fluffer
ever present,
rings out reason:
thinnest line.

(Some of these are set to music, as was the aforementioned.)

smear
I feel bad about the fact that I can get some scibble-paper.
A little bit would be okay, and all i need a few lines–
but the fear of losing them / having the :bugged” in some way–
and then, on again to the next thing,
never having finished; not even to think of anything grand coming of Harold.
But that’s not it.
or Is it?

C’omon Sarah, I’ve got other things I need ‘be doing.
Don’t have all this time to jse in, how you say?:____Fe doa.

Goddamn distinguishing

between “default”, and that which is “supposed to be”.
Either, in theory is excpted to work, but of the tree
and then I preview it in my mind–
this whole “Landscape” orientation of images–
like a storyboard– and different characters interact, etc .

I’m going to charge you a “3″, if NoviceNotes doesn’t get it together soon–
you’re getting a “C”.
no, i understand– it’s all reative to the project

[damn having-to-back-track–
again–
lost track…
where was I ?
FUCK!]

It feels good though–
i mean– the only good thing about it,
is that it feels good– like sleeping.
It’s refreshing. and when it’s finally over,
and i’ve gained, and lost so many thoughts on stuff,
non-stuff- virtual nothingness, i —
though longing-for, and therefore, oft’imes
(panzy’s not coming!) “eh… don’t wory abotu him.
we’ll get to him later. “.

Damnit damn opening the eyes. it’s so much easier with them closesed.
opening the eyes is sure to bring on confusion,
and the throbbin, dull, but ominous pain of forcing itself in,
gaining control, as I proportionally, lose my own.
and that is so very disheartening- so frustrating– so maddening.
should I continue?
what point?
is there pleasure in it? is there purpose; a practical function? that sucks.

once in a while,
a really great idea comes to mind– but it’s always lost.
and what you, Head ?
through past script queries– accessibility…
oh– shit, and then, there’s the damn “Upstairs”
(eyes open now) noise [i.e. Upstairs-Noise]
for all automatic complete-letion of that-houghts / variables —
sometimes good– more often bad– and would me l–
temploate– very important– the proper template,
so much can be affect… ban the un-trustworthy, and make it into a baloon,
now it up, and mail it to the Sun.

no .
all too much time-consuming–
too much for time
(i would NEVER believe her. never. “never trust a junkie”, and she’s just the same…)
i’ll have to try it somewhere-else. the Valkyries
(Lord of the Val… shit… another interjection. damnit. trying to match words in my head.)
random (i think), and unrelated to this….

look– she’s dying. she needs some sleep!. she’s not right.
version 8. not right. needing sleep. — oh yeah, taking One dssssss–
interesting: I spoke to my wallet and, ba… too far gone.
save file, or lose it.
bye bye.

Once upon a time
in Eibreaetion,
Dozens, they did say,
for every dime.

Fools lost loves last as long
as “pour another glass”

©2008 ~ j sabare.

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