There’s a desire to finish unfinished work but life rolls down hills faster than a cat’s reflexes. That’s why I am afraid of being on the sides of hills. I love them when I have solid ground to stand on.
Plants tinker me but insects make me insecure. I am okay creepy-crawlies as long as they don’t touch my skin. Maybe I’m too sensitive to static and direct micro-currents, maybe I just think I am, or even maybe I think that I think that I am.
If I could accommodate a white board (please do not associate with my racist tendencies with my preference of background for removable ink) inside my brain, maybe shove it deeper down a bit towards the right side and get someone to write for me lazy arse, I would probably make a new meme every hyper-micro secondulum instance. Well, who cannot? Who can not?
After four hours of crying
I leave a lot of thoughts unfinished, a lot of baggage unattended, some flow out of my chicken brain, some are lost by my monkey brain, some my childish brain runs away from, some are too deep for my dogmatic brain, so too dense to float above my fluid brain, some too volatile to remain my faulty vault brain.
Light falls through a pinhole on my foggy thinking to remind me that I have hope of losing more hope and that’s what keeps me going. Saviour, Failure, Ape, Escape.