Looking at the oranges through waves of heat
the mesh that holds the garlic
and wondering if its my eyes that are making things move so smoothly
waver
or if its the steam from my toast
my stomach hurts consistently
besides that i feel nothing
but everything
passion in a calm way
thinking everything clear grey
output output output
squiggly red lines under repeated words
what did my professor call that?
he may have well spoken in latin
he may have well
red lines
Latin was supposed to be capitalized
interaction with past times
through literature
imagination and empathy
Kings become reality- why not?
and my roomates seem to be characters i can interact with currently
coughing
from the bedroom
i treasure the times my body feels good
my eighth wave is fading
and i think of people i haven't called that i love
who are probably sleeping
green line, asking me to put a question mark
copy paste right click erase
and tomorrow i'll have to put my mind into a different time
Early Canada
all relative
but still i try to find
my life is seperate from my mind
virtue
who is that and when
pen
a tale so i can analyze your mind
in relevance to a transcendent reality
without knowing
the rhetoric seeps in
nothing erased
replaced
my faced
delirium, i laugh
and feel like i could cry
the fur on my cat feels exponentially softer
economics of culture
and i don't know why
there is a word for everything
they change
and when we realize this we are gone
we are one big
separate mind
united
in isolation
the words of a thousand poets
live in my brain
and make me insane
because none of it makes any sense
black and grey and white
nothing permanent
fleeting passing brief temporary
momentary short-lived
transient, ephemeral evanescent
caffiene
nicotine
tangerine
type type
caffiene
nicotine
tangerine
type type
caffiene...
nicotine...
tangerine?...
type
it is my eyes.