I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Friday, January 16, 2004
Gwen Stacey's Broken Neck...
End of a day.
Beginning of a weekend again.
Yoda senses much poker in your future, hrmmm?
I think that I should go to sleep.
I meant to go earlier, but that never happens.
Maybe I'll pop in that Wild West documentary, sip orange juice, and see what happens.
Maybe I'll just pop in The Empire Strikes Back like I always do, and picture all of the scenes in my head until I drift off.
I used to think about all of the arcade games that I would have in my room if I was rich when I was a little kid.
Or when I was a little older I would picture myself with superpowers.
Or I would imagine that I was famous.
Or I would imagine that I was trapped in a dungeon and had to crawl through a passage way...and found a roomfull of tall, Amazonian, sex-starved naked women who picked me up and took me to their leader...then she commanded them all to............
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