Stories have convenient beginnings, middles, and endings;

life itself has nothing of the sort. Half thoughts and misfired synapses jockey for position in a bubble of consciousness defined only by memory and bordering on infinity. Stop re-normalizing equations; maybe mass is infinite at the speed of light. I sell my soul to sell my self, writing little stories to try to amuse the masses and still can’t get past the dead-letter file, so f%$# it. I’ll write what I want, maybe my unborn progeny will appreciate it some day, the ravings of a 21st century lunatic, legend in his own mind, lover of women and brother of men. I try to create meaning in a world that doesn’t necessarily have any. I try to do for paper what Picasso did for canvas, make love to it, then spurt my juices on its surface as my supreme gift. The only question is: do nouns and verbs accurately describe human existence? Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What are words worth on the open market anyway?

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