I wrote this drunken freakish last night:
Sitting in Portcouver...
...passing time. Not really sure what I’m waiting for. I wish I had found the time to blog, but it just wasn't there. Used the Canon instead. My blogmate... Scratch, spark, puff... over and over. What's next? THC is a mystery to me. I want more... from myself and then the world. I need to think straight... buckle down... get a life. Then what am I living? Feels like a commercial, but guess it always did. WEQUITDRINKINGDOTCOM. On my list of things to do and see. UMBRELADOTCOM. Cool...
When do the fragments cease being fragments? When to they make the whole? Like the body, the mind requires a constant rhythm... and pulse. I think my pulse is erratic. Is that right? Am I supposed to learn this way? In moments? Where is science? My gut is made of what exactly? Why does my logic seem innate? Is it a result of choice? Have I made this bed? Where is my 2.5? Where are my standards? Lacking expectations means, is some ways, lacking standards... even standards of the self. I have no expectations of self. Am I fortunate or...
The portish have studded tires. I wonder why.
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