When you’re overly conscious of a cracked mind (some element of the tandem working re: dualism) you’ll mostly be reading film-credits, scratching, preparing to think you should be writing revisions, or have written them previous to being here. You are not the sort of person (obviously) that films play for or what you are reading is written for. You’re perky walking home from the cinema up a hill, in the wake of a new idea

So you’re ostensibly cracked but some of that sentiment you stole: well-structured thought was programmed into the golden books and Seuss; post-dinner laughs generously concealed parables. Immediacy is central to this eccentric bush life, and that’s right, you’re noticing the strange tangent shifts getting ever stranger. Nothing ever gets shiftier (you wish) in this life. You collect curios and read mystery into magazines. So the mirror reveals an engaging personality but what lies beneath. Intriguing the spreading inattention to causes as revealed on talk-shows.

Causes, they make you want to spend $23.95 on stories of inspiration. If you had to imagine yourself painted on a fractured urn – and you do – you could be lost in static meaning just because of the above. Of course you’re textual and present today: you can in 20 words direct people to books, show them where to go so to speak, and re-order the world’s mind: one perfect confluence. But the re-stitching preempts history. (I can be lost in static meaning, but on the other hand I am no poetaster. Lacking definition like that. I did meet one once, and he was un-intelligent and un-engaging. Not a good combination.) Continue checking the ‘date modified’ tag on your lines and wrinkles, checking when things got left askew, un-vacuumed.

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