the click clacking sound of my keys

iced americano breaking through a sweet pastry a freshly blown hairdo whipping against my face as it's tousled by wind dietary fiber a pair of headphones connecting the ears of two heads into one folding a dog ear into a library book mango sticky rice perfume roughness of stubble brushing over my collarbone crinkled linen duvets the lightness of pressing against a key on an electric piano removing the safety plastic off a brand new ballpoint pen synchronicity my mundane stuffed fish lost cause by beck friendly middle-aged male baristas

sometimes, like other human beings on Earth, i feel a separation pulling my brain from my skull to float above the rest of my body. i'm entirely out of my own, almost like a birdseye lens on a camera. i am both a king and his jester. she looks like rot; haggard and vaporous. it's not necessarily contentment, unless that's synonymous with defeatedness.  there really isn't much that can be done here. so i just watch, marking a star on my calendar for Judgement day.

if a seagull screamed, "kiss her! kiss her!", how would you react? the worst way you can sabotage yourself is to be discouraged. i will always, always, always, give my ear to you.

i don't really quite understand the idea of letting things go. i can't believe i'm actually typing this out, but i would like to make a reference to a recent purchase of mine as metaphor for this topic. experiences in my life are kind of like a fresh pot of slime. if something feels so good to hold in my hands, i'd rather it actually just tack onto and directly cement to the skin of my palms, and i can center and accustom daily living around my new slimy hands even if i'm making a mess of things. i expect the body heat i radiate to keep the stuff pliable and useable for...ever. the longer it's in my possession, the worse i will feel if it were to dry out or be thrown away or confiscated for distracting my classmates who apparently got desensitized to bare shoulders. i guess this convoluted and terrible metaphor could be more intelligently explained with terminology we've all heard before-- sunken. cost. fallacy. sunken slime fallacy? slunken cost fallacy? su...

i've been busy frying off my brain via iphone stove. my intellect is being cooked off, leaving the meat-shaped organ floating around in my skull looking rather lean. i'm a neurological slim jim for God's sake. you could probably fry up a mean, crispy-bottomed egg in the juices that have spilled out my ears. but guess what? i'm happy!

luck works in mysterious ways. i look for signs of luck and abundance and something happy coming my way all the time. it's frequency illusion at best, and desperation at worst. the search remains tethered to one specific outcome. one specific thing  that i want to go my way. it hasn't happened. i'm not sure it will happen soon. but maybe someday, if i'm lucky . but that doesn't mean good things aren't yet to be found. my dearest friend zach and i had a discussion about pennies the other day. i never was terribly superstitious in the past-- i don't walk under ladders, but never reroute for a crack in the sidewalk. but the day before everything changed, i saw 4 heads down pennies lying on the floor of the Brooklyn-Bridge/City Hall subway station. 4 means death in Chinese culture. someone's loose change, a thread come undone in a pocket, clumsy wallet maneuvering-- it was these things that caused everything to shift. i know it. i've spent so many nights...

to be honest, there's something sinisterly beautiful about agony. i'm sure edmund burke could explain this far better than i ever could, but the pain that precedes my every action feels meaningful in developing the perspective of the world that'll reflect on my face when i'm eighty. the ennui and the ache and the longing and the bitterness-- give it all to me. let it engulf me until i'm filleted like a human butterfly on a cold, dark metal table. i want the coroner to open me up and have everything in me be colored black and spill out like tar. that is what i get. that's what this trite, shortened, ultimately fruitless thought pattern has given me. i want to exist in a state of pain and absorb everything around me in the hopes that no one else would have to feel exactly what i feel right now. my suffering and my martyrdom and my pariah existence give me a level of elitism and beauty that none of you would begin to understand. but then again, i'm just like ev...