Singing like a sacred snake, soaring like a sanguine (surreal) swallow, you remind me why I hate alliteration and obvious adjectives. You've transmorphed polymorphed my fiction into trilingual hate software and dead linguistic references, my munificent yet malicious muse. What would Empedocles do? Some of us lack an Aetna worthy of the ultimate leap of the penultimate pen. Betrayal numero uno is ever deciding to write anything down. It's so much more difficult to forget that you display at least the semblance of being conscious, Turing Tests be damned.
Look, I need to ask you a favor: Could you cool it with the "inspiration"? My gums have been bleeding for weeks because I lack the courage to otherwise express the energy that spreads like a fungus inside mi cabeza. The less familiar I am with a language, the more truthful it seems, but regardless, I'll slowly corrupt them all.
So yes, the bleeding gums. This could be a problem. For seven years I've had a recurring dream about my teeth falling out. I'm beginning to believe that this is yet another oneiric premonition, lacking any interesting symbolism whatsoever.
I've made an honest effort to keep neologisms consistent with the dead mother tongues. In the first paragraph of this missive, my love-struck angst-ridden resentment-laden thoroughly clichéd cry for help, I flirted ever so briefly with the idea of bringing my Greek and Roman brothers (and sisters... don't be jealous, my love) together in a bacchanalian celebration of excess captured in the microcosm of two (or (debatably) three) syllables. (Again, I slip seemingly into a parenthetical morass of self-doubt.)
In a dream, I traveled back five-hundred years to transmit the Mandelbrot set to our intellectual forebears. Growling after pic-a-nic baskets, they seemed more interested in the perfected symmetry and consistency of the paper than on the image rendered on its surface. An quick scritch on the jowls, an afterthunk void of the bowels, and I was back into your fickly fastidious clutches. I have become disillusioned with the idea of ever escaping you, my dear.
Case in point: this so-called "inspiration" seems to contain several crucial lacunae. Does the Holy Guardian Angel come with an operator's manual? Self-consciousness is a disease I assuage with the bottle and exacerbate with a heroic dose of ether, sucking in the heavens to clarify the striated geology of my sedimentary Big Bean, imbibing the macro to elucidate the micro. My most recent breakthrough: I want to paint blood tattoos on the tabula rasa foreheads of the few uncorrupted, non-dualist entities still breathing in manifestly solid lungs.
If you've made it this far, simple probability suggests you're the fleshy vessel of my muse-juice. Do not hesitate to get in touch (especially if you haven't had to look up any of these words).
(The links: I play drums/keyboard in Shinyville . I work at home. And I'm doing that whole "graduate school" thing. I have a journal and a groovy discussion forum .)
