December 22, 2003

this is the moment that we know.
this is the chaos that we hate and love.
He knows. part of me doesn’t care, but the other half wants to rip itself into quarters and run to the four compass rose directions.
North is where I dwell, thoughts and words mingling into a jumbled mass of conversation and arts.
south I curl up and sleep, warmth of a death-like slumber. West the mispellings of names and misinterpretted meanings and faces. the sores, and scars. I hold the pencils there along with a peice of bread, in case the birds should come again.
East is the end of the world. I hold all I see through dark grey clouds, in a distance through a prophetic orange ball.
Can’t talk about it now.
Electric energy, pouring and singing though my body. it’s rhythm is pi, what repitition.

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