Man o' Man. It comes a-whistlin' off the plain, curling and blowing and moving and flowing like so much thick cloud. A grey paste that you cannot use to stick papers together with or that you'd cook with. No, this is a paste you inadvertantly apply to your hole body, as if it were lotion or unguent. Once it hardens well then you just sit there and think, now what? If you haven't figured it out my blog-reading friends, I'm talking about love. Hard love. Rock Hard Love Sensations. They are rippling like the first step of that dinosaur in the water glass.
Last night I came home from the terrible horrible unfortunate putrescent day job. I had hoped to talk to my friend but, big surprise, she didn't respond to my phone calls, emails, texts, or sexts (again!) which send your's truly into a tailspin of tallboys, microwave burritos, and some kind of chef show marathon. I don't know what it was. I was lost, alone, afraid. I did a lot of wondering and muttering, in that order. How do artists manage these terrible things like love and confusion? It is a question with no answer but I won't stop asking it. Ever.
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