I watched my organs get mixed up with chives on tv. I’d be more excited about this if I wasn’t a salad of sorts myself.
Listening to my family talk about life through a lens. I wish I could find a lens right now, but I’m stuck here digesting every little impression that enters my eyes and ears. Every thought, image, idea and sound reflects off of the canyons forged into my brain by the icebergs of the events of my life.
I am the sky, and the weather is dependent on these signals.
These signals come in the form of little arrows. Pew pew.
A film-noir western is on TV now. When an image hits me of a lover watching a man rape his love and then force a fight, it bounces off of the canyons and comes back to me as something that is my own. What a selfish reaction.
I assume Frankenstein is a hollow idol. He isn’t a person, like a strange unwritten chapter of Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions”
