All The Wrong Topics dot com

Torrential downpour.

catastrophe, my lazy eye, is coming on strong for the wrong topics man… the going is always getting rough as the demon loses its innocence regarding the world and its cruelties… the innocent is born, the human animal with passive intellect, but the potential for accomplishing many different things throughout life… retaining some understanding through the lessons learned hardest, but it always varies as per the person subtly intertwined with growth, the adult is the concrete made mobile by the conscious presence residing within the vessel as it voyages… in some weird combination of the elements, as they have built up over ages and eons waiting while the journey is underway for a physical representative to take that hanging initiative to change the world, and under the right circumstances of luck versus fate the child is born… the weak end mirrored in the glass as the sexual revolution spins on its axis of evil, lovely and passionately working under the surface of the glass, the people procreating into blind frustration as an expulsion of definite expression made material gesture relative to attempts at pleasure… the decision is always most crucial then to the measurable minute of detail, whether the yes or no ratio will affect the outcome with exceptional disposable ‘uhh’, but there is never more accurate a way to find this out than the field test… the extremes weighing in and weighing down with their so-called ‘two cents’, waiting for the Man is always the most aggravating game, and especially in regards to the lesser aspects of the beast… the crowded feeling that one gets just before this elevator takes off, and we find ourselves drifting around in no-damn-land to speak of, though there is only this realization glimmering… that we know we are there at all is enough to keep my thoughts Here a little longer… to pour down the drain with the rest of the drink, and the true wisdom off-street that beleaguers the domesticated waif, the friendship has to be more than just this for that it would seem… with intellect only slightly necessary in adapting to our wilderness, i find us imperiled by a culture knife in hand, and it is more like MC Escher drawing the hand cutting itself off… the canvas desires other things to appease it, like the spilling of blood or the flowing of wine into gullets, these are the choices in the prices we have made our weights to bear… constantly on the lookout for the fruits of our suffering, and then sometimes that fruit is born as the infant mind, where a sweetness lurks so deep inside that the only time you ‘see’ it is as you die… i have had friends die, killing themselves through no fault of my own, but that is not their burden to bear… the trickling drip that steadies to a mad obnoxious pace, and then Here we are together at last you and i, a welcoming sanctuary from the overwhelming whirlwind that is the outside world…

Thanks, khet.