5:00 in the morning...

is my reverse alarm clock
5:00 in the evening ...
kcolc mrala esrever ym si

FOUR years ago...

I posted this...



And it makes me even happier now.

3

p
o

TWO

Two times. Two times too many you've dangled that carrot in front of my eyes, man. Leading me blindly - speaking to me softly...full of promises and sweet rewards.

As I trod on and on and on...

Signed,

DONKEY

ONE

Evening when I was writing after work, something happened. A doppelganger of myself popped up right beside me.

POP! 

It actually sounded like that. I jumped/swore/and fell off the couch. He/Me/I/It was wearing the same clothing as I was. I fell on my ass and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms.

He/Me/I/It sat there, looking just as shocked as I was.

I and He/Me/I/It  both said at the same time, "What the fuck?"

And then we fainted.

That was a long time ago. Now were the best of friends. We're the reason that we don't return your phone calls, why we avoid certain events, why we procrastinate to points of complete, illogical explanation - it's because we're just so fucking cool. We make ourselves laugh, we tell dumb jokes, trade books, comic books, read passages of poetry to each other - we start to write things but usually end up getting distracted and end up doing something else completely different. One night may start with us making Zucchini bread and then an hour later we're acting out scenes from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Do laundry and end up weeding in the garden. Want to take naps but end up arm-wrestling instead.

We have fun, and lots of it. I don't even know what I would do if I didn't have He/Me/I/It in my life - but there's one thing that we are extremely focused on. One thing that we fear and slightly tremble at the notion of...

We're afraid of the "Un-POP". We've talked about it. We hope to God that it never happens.

That ONE evening, fooling around after work, the doppelganger of ourselves will disappear.

POP!

Just like that. And it'll be done. No more. No Best friend, confidant, go-to-guy. Done, finished, fini.

All alone. Just with ourself.

Just......ONE.

tonight

a homeless 23 year old after work toothpaste 20 dollars spun drugs atm frustration

I have so much in the back of my car

and i talked to him

before, he called out to me asking me for something and i yelled out to WAIT

i gave him 1/50th of it

prepper shit in my car

it drives me fucking crazy

i have this stuff but

why cant i change his life?

because i cant?

i know his age drug habits where he sleeps now

he didnt need a sleeping bag, clothes

accepted chocolate, food, all of my huge bags of toothpaste and toothbrushes for him and his friends

razors

i gave him, not advice - but a small amount of shit as I gave him 20 bucks

i told him that I wished that he would use it for food and/or comfort - not drugs but I understand that he was nodding his head because he was appreciative and i get it

i asked him if he was using resources that my city has available for the homeless. Food, shelter, etc.

he said 211?

I said no and started to talk about our PD homeless liason that I know but he started talking about some other stuff and...he wasn't into it.

he said that he had pride to a certain extent and didn't like hand outs as much as everybody else.

we talked more.

he talked about his mother in a minute. She sucked.

he lost it after his girlfriend slept with some guy.

i don't even know where im going with this story. It's late now.

i am not drunk.

i can give a fuck about grammar, syntax, punctuation

i worked tonight. first thing that I had to do was to kick out a person

i made people laugh

business was slow

shit got busy

my job sucks ass

and I have the best job in the world

people would kill me for my job

So, here you have little old, fucking me - just depositing money into my local ATM because I need to, because if I don't, then my world will explode and then implode and explode in an even grander and more majestic galactic thing of beautiful destruction.

I want to take you by your fucking ears and help you.

I can do more. That's what sucks. And, please - do this for me. No, seriously. I'm Fucking RETARDED. I don't know how to do shit. I put the IDIOT into the Idiot Savant.


I am still haunted by being homeless when I was 18-19......


SO...

I was 15 seconds away from home and I turned my car around

I wanted to catch him again and give him more stuff

then I turned my car back around to go home

i understand why

but it bugs me

Oh.

Also?

when I told him that i just got off of work and that i was a bartender
he was very surprised

he said that he thought that I was a doctor

A DOCTOR.

Me?

E.S.P. Telekinesis. Ancient Astronauts. Nutri-Grain. Pregnancy. Bigfoot. Ecto-Cooler. Malcolm McLaren. Cancer. 5D. Mediocre Mario-Kart. Watches. Me. Fencing. God. Gleek. Gloop. Goop!!! The Goon. The Gooch. Kathleen Kennedy. VALIS. Pleats. EG&G. 1957. Che Guevara. Ultron. Colonel Graff. Dan Sweetman. Astral Projection. Stan Getz. Cần Thơ.  Fat Free Milk. C3-PO. This End Up^. In Love. Yorick. Harper Lee. The Bleed. Dies The Fire. Aries. ISON Comet. Gretal. I LIKE IKE. Crystal Pepsi. Alfred Pennyworth. dec    binary    hex       4 = 00100 = 0x04       8 = 01000 = 0x08      15 = 01111 = 0x0F      16 = 10000 = 0x10      23 = 10111 = 0x17      42 = %0101010 = 0x2A     108 = %1101100 = 0x6C 7418880 = %11100010011010000000000 = 0x713400. Alta Loma, California. Howard Stark. Text “TACO” to 91318. Frak. MI6. Crosley. Lovecraft. Selina Kyle Malone. The Thin  Red Line. Crystal Skulls. Holocrons. D20. THACO. Liberty Board Shop. George McFly. Cambridge. AaBbc. Better dead than Read! The Hedgehog. Zucchini. Mayans. The Pearl. Not Steinbeck. Vornado.  River Pheonix. I want to TEACH children about the joys of the written word, I am my Grandmother’s…ummm- - -uhhhhh, I guess Grandson. I raised myself on her LATIN lessons and her elementary school primers. And maybe with the books –ALL of the wonderous, kind-of crazy/miasmic plethora of fucking weird-ass shit that I had read in book shelves and things that I was told NOT TO TOUCH. I Read them. ALL of them. I READ EVERYTHING. I suck things in my mind. Always, I do it. It causes me pain. JOY. I’m not special – but I am. I have limited memory recall. I regurgitate about 63%, MAYBE in every aspect of my life. I feel guilt about this. I should be smarter. I just can’t remember all of the shit that I read. I don’t tell people that part of the reason that I don’t sleep during the day is that I HAVE TO DRINK LIQUIDS AND HAVE TO READ STUFF. I know that I need to sllep but I get distracted even if I know what I’m watching on the dumb computer is a conduit for knowledge. I am always excited…butbutbut I’m FUCKING RETARDED. I have ADHD. CLINICAL Depression. I am not the kite. I am the heavy string. I am not special. I collect what dust and sediment passes through my ears. It’s all Cilia. It’s all filimental. I think I just made up that word – but it really does make sense of this sensical NON-sense.

AND

I’m

LOVE/a futurist/STRONGER THAN ALL OF YOU/and am learning

SO

I’ll be serious.

Right now.

THESE ARE THINGS THAT I DO WELL:

1.     I can get people excited about books or anything Nerd-Centric.

2.     I REALLY AM A GOOD BARTENDER.

3.     I REALLY AM A GOOD……writer.

4.     I make you laugh.

5.     My insides are good. Perfect health. Drink less.

6.     ADHD, CLINICAL DEPRESSION, and just being Benjamin Button.

7.     I would fight to the death for you.

8.     My love for my little sister.

9.     My love for SCIENCE.

10.  My verbosity.

11.  My HEART.

12.  My tenacity

13.  My friendship.

14.  MY LOVE FOR YOU ALL.

Just keep swimming...

if this ship was sinking
i would make sure to throw you overboard
because you're a life-preserver

pituarary tracts

its not the meaning of the words
no
they don't get harder to discern
it's the will and the lack of urgency
to put them down that burns

( I don't remember writing this.)

Independence Hall...

Where were you today

We missed you

Were you stuck in the mud
Were you rearranging The Stars

It's sometimes hard to find you
and keep hold of your hand
while you're wandering, marveling and wondering

We wondered too

Were you with your cats
In your garden
In study
Contemplation
Sad and pondering

We think that you were
where you wanted to be

We missed you
We really did

And it's great
It's awesome
We love it

Just remember
If nothing else

That WE are arranging The Stars too


----------------------------------------------------


This time in between the day and the night
The light kills my sense of life
So scared, turn it off, turn it off

It's dull, this dusk, this desk, this dust
My eyes adjust
I'll blow out the flame
Can you and me remain?

Changes, never been good with change
I hate it when it all stays the same
Caught between the gold and the game
Changes, never been good with change
I hate it when it all stays the same
Caught between the cold and the waves
My heart beats up, again

Once said, words make a world of their own
I misread
I can't get you back on the phone
I'm so tired, so turn it off, turn it off
How's that, last week we were home
You're far away
And I hardly know
Can you and me delay?

Changes, never been good with change
I hate it when it all stays the same
Caught between the gold and the game
Changes, never been good with change
Troubled when it all stays the same
Caught between this cold and the waves
My heart beats up, again

Are you my trouble
Are you my trouble

BEETHOVEN WAS RIGHT.

Bees are dying.
Democracy doesn't work.
Fortified food.
COLD hearts.

Reverse Roar.

I'm going to not write like I have been writing lately. I do it because it's easy. I'm not lazy. I just have way too much shit that I want to put down. Sometimes I have time to write but ajkhkjdhshjddaj - I get distracted. Sometimes I get lazy. Sometimes I don't care. Sometimes I care too much and that's why I don't write.

I am in shorts and sitting in my backyard. Right by the garden. I'm proud of it. I can write more about how important it is to me. I wont. Boring. Garden writing. Really. Not like what I just wrote is any better. I am making fun of myself and writing the exact type of thing that I am making fun of.

I need to stop making fun of myself. I need
to not write
like this
anymore

Reversing dumb writing

Writing dumb verses

I did that on purpose.

I Don't Know What Happens After This...

And what is this, my friend?

A thing.

Some, amazing beautiful thing that we're sharing.

Let's not ruin this this while it's happening.

The Motorhomes - Psalm

I danced all winter so summer came as a surprise
Terrible thing that I've done tracing your steps too long
I laughed all summer I laughed until I dropped my guard
Terrible things that I've said hating you all too much
loving you all to much

Oh I wish I could be like you, so I asked you how and then you said no
no you don’t want to be like me, so don’t try to be, I hope you won't turn in to me
It took October I think it took November too
Then all it took was a push and I turned into you
Oh no, I turned into you.

I Ching, I Choose, I Change...

“Just because I liked something at one point in time doesn’t mean I’ll always like it, or that I have to go on liking it at all points in time as an unthinking act of loyalty to who I am as a person, based solely on who I was as a person. To be loyal to myself is to allow myself to grow and change, and challenge who I am and what I think. The only thing I am for sure is unsure, and this means I’m growing, and not stagnant or shrinking.” 

― Jarod Kintz.

Will you be my constant?

Dance and sing and dance and sing...

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day. F. Scott Fitzgerald

Stop trying to wake yourself up.

Never sleep again.

Every night is a daymare.

You won't forget this tomorrow morning.

My parents are not dead.
I am not rich.
I have no wards.
I employ no hired help.
I'm not a genius.
And I have no enemies.

I am only a small man with big thoughts.
A big heart.
Small beginnings.
Haunted much.
But I try not to sweat the small stuff.

I will always be here.
I will be here way after you are gone.
All of you.
I miss you now.

You need to WAKE UP.

Get moving.

Get out of your own head.

And remember EVERYTHING.

Good day

and

Good night

Han Shoots First.

Han Shoots First...

I have spent the last hour expanding on a very short story that I wrote before.

It seems like a lot more like The Star Wars SPECIAL EDITION to THE ORIGINALS

I can, like - Haiku the story, right?

minimum wage worker

clown

hot chick

Allen Ginsberg Was A Werewolf...

I can't wait to type on my new typewriter.

I don't know what I'm going to write about. Nothing unusual there. Do I write only poetry? Only write on one LONG story? Only write short stories? Continue to rewrite my old, short stories? Do I take it to the laundry porch and annoy the neighbor, or to the backyard by the garden, underneath the lemon tree, in Deprak Chopper Phil's Garage while waiting for microwavvvvv burritos? (never)

I should bring my old-timey record player and only write for the length of the 78.

I wrote a long-ass rewriting of a short story the other night. The short story became longer. I don't know if I like it.

I, I, I,

barely write and when I do I write about not writing

The always thorn in my side, side, side

the eternal and creative frustration on my life, life, life

needle in my...(you get it)

Land of da Lost...

I'm looking at the palm tree fronds in my backyard

It's late, I know

Thinking of things
of you
people noise is coming from the alley
they're up to no good
i don't care
im tired
not supposed to be up now
i know
i dont care
we're all tired
i think more than you all do in your lifetimes
im not special
i just care

it's late, I know

Palm tree fronds looking at me in their backyard

fsssssshhhhhhhh

It's okay to not smoke
I'll get there
I'm ferocious
Done with smoldering

I encourage you, kindling

Just don't extinguish my fire

Fat Free Milk

“What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself”

Satie, Gnossienne No. 1 (piano solo)

It's just wrong.

Compose.

Write.

If you dont.

Then you'll decompose?

Right?

THESE

HITS
MISSED
SHIT
and
PISSED
AGAINST
AGAIN?

IS
IT
THIS
again?
pissed
and shit upon
always hit upon

I do not fear death I will pass away sooner than most people who read this, but that doesn't shake my sense of wonder and joy BY ROGER EBERT

I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. I am grateful for the gifts of intelligence, love, wonder and laughter. You can’t say it wasn’t interesting. My lifetime’s memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris.

I don’t expect to die anytime soon. But it could happen this moment, while I am writing. I was talking the other day with Jim Toback, a friend of 35 years, and the conversation turned to our deaths, as it always does. “Ask someone how they feel about death,” he said, “and they’ll tell you everyone’s gonna die. Ask them, In the next 30 seconds? No, no, no, that’s not gonna happen. How about this afternoon? No. What you’re really asking them to admit is, Oh my God, I don’t really exist. I might be gone at any given second.”

Me too, but I hope not. I have plans. Still, illness led me resolutely toward the contemplation of death. That led me to the subject of evolution, that most consoling of all the sciences, and I became engulfed on my blog in unforeseen discussions about God, the afterlife, religion, theory of evolution, intelligent design, reincarnation, the nature of reality, what came before the big bang, what waits after the end, the nature of intelligence, the reality of the self, death, death, death.

Many readers have informed me that it is a tragic and dreary business to go into death without faith. I don’t feel that way. “Faith” is neutral. All depends on what is believed in. I have no desire to live forever. The concept frightens me. I am 69, have had cancer, will die sooner than most of those reading this. That is in the nature of things. In my plans for life after death, I say, again with Whitman:

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

And with Will, the brother in Saul Bellow’s “Herzog,” I say, “Look for me in the weather reports.”

Raised as a Roman Catholic, I internalized the social values of that faith and still hold most of them, even though its theology no longer persuades me. I have no quarrel with what anyone else subscribes to; everyone deals with these things in his own way, and I have no truths to impart. All I require of a religion is that it be tolerant of those who do not agree with it. I know a priest whose eyes twinkle when he says, “You go about God’s work in your way, and I’ll go about it in His.”

What I expect to happen is that my body will fail, my mind will cease to function and that will be that. My genes will not live on, because I have had no children. I am comforted by Richard Dawkins’ theory of memes. Those are mental units: thoughts, ideas, gestures, notions, songs, beliefs, rhymes, ideals, teachings, sayings, phrases, clichés that move from mind to mind as genes move from body to body. After a lifetime of writing, teaching, broadcasting and telling too many jokes, I will leave behind more memes than many. They will all also eventually die, but so it goes.

O’Rourke’s had a photograph of Brendan Behan on the wall, and under it this quotation, which I memorized:

I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.

That does a pretty good job of summing it up. “Kindness” covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

One of these days I will encounter what Henry James called on his deathbed “the distinguished thing.” I will not be conscious of the moment of passing. In this life I have already been declared dead. It wasn’t so bad. After the first ruptured artery, the doctors thought I was finished. My wife, Chaz, said she sensed that I was still alive and was communicating to her that I wasn’t finished yet. She said our hearts were beating in unison, although my heartbeat couldn’t be discovered. She told the doctors I was alive, they did what doctors do, and here I am, alive.

Do I believe her? Absolutely. I believe her literally — not symbolically, figuratively or spiritually. I believe she was actually aware of my call and that she sensed my heartbeat. I believe she did it in the real, physical world I have described, the one that I share with my wristwatch. I see no reason why such communication could not take place. I’m not talking about telepathy, psychic phenomenon or a miracle. The only miracle is that she was there when it happened, as she was for many long days and nights. I’m talking about her standing there and knowing something. Haven’t many of us experienced that? Come on, haven’t you? What goes on happens at a level not accessible to scientists, theologians, mystics, physicists, philosophers or psychiatrists. It’s a human kind of a thing.

Someday I will no longer call out, and there will be no heartbeat. I will be dead. What happens then? From my point of view, nothing. Absolutely nothing. All the same, as I wrote to Monica Eng, whom I have known since she was six, “You’d better cry at my memorial service.” I correspond with a dear friend, the wise and gentle Australian director Paul Cox. Our subject sometimes turns to death. In 2010 he came very close to dying before receiving a liver transplant. In 1988 he made a documentary named “Vincent: The Life and Death of Vincent van Gogh.” Paul wrote me that in his Arles days, van Gogh called himself “a simple worshiper of the external Buddha.” Paul told me that in those days, Vincent wrote:

Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map.

Why, I ask myself, shouldn’t the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?

Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. Just as steamboats, buses and railways are the terrestrial means.

To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.

That is a lovely thing to read, and a relief to find I will probably take the celestial locomotive. Or, as his little dog, Milou, says whenever Tintin proposes a journey, “Not by foot, I hope!”

FAT FREE MILK

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit, sed diam nonummy nibh euismod tincidunt ut laoreet dolore magna aliquam erat volutpat.Archive

NOV
8TH

WED

It does not matter how slow you go so long as you do not stop.

— Wisdom of Confucius

06251975/4513 = 3154\57915260

I wake up often and don't know where I am.

I don't know what time it is.

What day is it?

What job do I have to get to?

What/whose/which house is this?

I sometimes rub the sleep out of my eyes, blink at the ceiling and listen to the house and neighborhood sounds and try to remember what year it even is.

Everyday I do this -

The WHO

       WHAT

       WHERE

       WHEN

Everyday I do this - 

And I know...
     
       WHY.

Stream of obnoxiousness to be turned into new bodies of work...

A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval. - Mark Twain 

So that is why you will always suck, Self.

I can't fall asleep yet
but I don't think that I'm giving myself time to do so
It ticks louder when it's quiet
It's muted when you all are SO LOUD

SO SELFISH
SO STUPID

Mollusks
and shellfish

You are Krill
and I'm a Baleen Whale

I haven't been drinking
I've just been thinking too much
about thinking about how
I don't think enough
or do things enough
about the really important stuff

I used a lot or repetitive and aquatic words on Porpoise.

Sorry, I couldn't kelp myself.

STUPID.

Okay, now I'm going to shut this drown.

"Time will prove my love to you and cement my place in your heart forever. For time will give me the credibility and the believability that I need to convince you to want to spend the rest of your life with me. That I am worthy of such a commitment from you."

Time tells
that love spent
makes marks on our bones

The rocket's set now
do we set the dial to 1 or 10?

retract/unwind
life starts again

breathe
relax
calm down

Time told
you back then
that you were a speck

like a dust mote
galactic dust
a Big Bang of Love

The rocket's thrusting now
do we set the dial to 11?

Time will tell
if my love spent
will make me more

Than this...

It is true that a fellow cannot ignore women - but he can think of them as he ought - as sisters, not as sparring partners. Jim Elliot

FAT FREE LOVE

DEAR Kevin,

This is CNN. 

 I mean, this is Mandie. I wanted to express again my appreciation and gratitude for you. I am sure I will express these feelings again and again, for days and weeks and months to come and months turn into years, so let's see where this goes.  It's already been a little more than 30 days since you laid that kiss on me in the kitchen. I often replay the memory of that first night. I do. I really do.

 I have loved before, but this is different with you. It feels new every time I see you. There is a sort of electricity I get from you that grows from my heart space and wiggles with yours. That's the best way I can describe it and THAT is the new thing.  New love is always exciting, but this is different. You've done something to me that I've never experienced before.

 I don't have a doubt in my mind about this new relationship…. In the past, I found myself asking questions like, "How many times are we going to make this trip?"  Knowing that the drive to visit whomever it was would someday become a burden.  It always did. You realize how far away someone is when you fall out of love with them.  Conveniently and luckily, you live in a place that I already consider another home. I know this city and I love it. I'd like to move back one day. I'd like to love you more every day. I daydream about sharing a place with you, cooking you food, reading comic books, creating things, laughing a lot, leaving notes for you, kissing you, touching your butt as you walk by me, dancing, singing, playing records, shopping for old records… All of these things. It's true. I don't only think, but simply know a life with you would be a lot of fun.  And I'm a strong believer in having a fun, easy life. I also know that I can make you a happy man in more ways than one. I'll help keep you healthy, and young, and happy. If you're having a bad day, I have a magical ability to pull you out of it.  You are so-far fulfilling everything I would want from a partner. As if I were to write a list of all the components of my ideal mate. You're like me in so many ways and so not like me in complimentary ways.  I would watch Star Wars for you. Do you understand the importance of this decision? 

Oh Kevin. Oh baby. Oh sweet thing. You are wonderful. You are so good to me. So thoughtful, caring, expressive, and loving. Thoughtful. Sexy, beautiful, funny, intelligent. I am so glad you happened to me. I never quite understood why I was so sensitive to you before, but I suppose it makes sense now, yes?

I love you. 

A-Bzz-bzz,

Mandie Bee

Freelance Writer Afraid of Fire...

Martian Manhunter is obsessed with television programming. Martian Manhunter is obsessed with getting paid for comic book, tech, magazine, fiction, non-fiction, wedding vows and any other type of writing. Martian Manhunter is obsessed with Martian Manhunter obsessing about Martian Manhunter obsessing about television programming.

Make Money With AdSense...

Make nothing with nonsense
accomplish nothing with pretense
sixpence
penny farthings
for smatterings and heart smartings
and the absence of beats hearting
an awareness of obtusence
and a putrid semblence of
the one through five sense
says,

"There's no making money with AdSense."

As long as I'm writing @fatfreemilk

:)

A perfect day. A perfect night. It's nice. We deserve it. Right?

ZooooooooooozzzzzzzzzzzzZ

And the reason that you don't write as much as before is because
you wrote so much before
you see paper and want to write on it
you have ideas and clever thoughts and movie things and poems
business things

but you don't
not as much
and you're cool with it
sometimes

And the reason that you don't write as much as before is because
there's
no rush
it's frustrating, I KNOW
but
I'm older now
LIFE got older
more important

We're getting older

I want to write about this TOGETHER.

Tongue Tied - GROUPLOVE [official video]

Neon Trees - Everybody Talks

Chairlift - Bruises

Beethoven -- Moonlight Sonata

mbee3

mbee2

mbee

Burial & Four Tet Feat. Thom Yorke - Ego HQ

A Wedding Speech...

The Edge...

SEARCH THIS.

Wikipedia will never replace an Encyclopedia.

The Dog Stars...

I love reading the first page of a book and knowing that I'm going to blow through it in a week.
Even at this hour, a late start is a good start to my small comforts.

And the fucking author writes like me.

Fucked up-like. Fragmented and shit.

"I keep the beast running."

i didnt do it on purpose

i told you that I shouldnt have this shit around here

TRUST...

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” 
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte