~NiTheCat

We write in red to define and code errors or mistakes. Perhaps my choice of ink has not strayed far from its use. Everything I put to paper is a mistake. Those spurts of lines that contain nothing, because the writer is made from nothing. When there is something programmed into your mind, it's hard to cover it in a shroud of disbelief. Perhaps we recoil from the good things to punish ourselves. Perhaps we dampen our spirits in ourselves on purpose to gain a sense of misery: potent and heart breaking as it is. She suspects something, and I honestly would too. Far too long the bar has gone above the head. The bar comes crashing back down, and expectations die miserably. I miss my brother, maybe it took a while for the situation to boil in. Essay formats, a strict conjunction of elements thrown into a book. Honestly reading has become more and more of a task. I lose interest in things, even on the computer. I try to get out more. The sadness and anger still cleang, our vivid images are nothing but a sad fascade of our former beliefs and trasngressions. Boil this daly and raisis away.

The complexity of complications overthrows any simplicity we once knew. Those who tried with their all have backed out of so many beautiful ideals and sights. We love writing, it is a distinct passion that feeds the hungry, whithering souls. Unfortunately, my soul is turning empty and unmotivated, sleep has become both a friend and a fiend. We all understand though. I once tried to save people. Not in the jesus way, but in a way where we understand and confided in ourselves. The ores of the ship, taunted by our cruel mistress; the Sea. So much tiredness in such a small amount of time. Sixteen years and instead of enjoying every moment, we're so tired. The blank generation is filled with a sad and forgotten nostalgia. We want home, but everywhere we look, the gold always turns to spit and riches to ashes. Ashes turned to sympathy, but the sympathy was something from the Devil. Pity, he takes none of: amusement is a key to answer. The idealism of procrastination leaves a huge hole for one to have to deal with. Green marks make green faces. We bite into our lives encased within grit teeth. We look away, wondering what exactly is going on. We are so close to ourselves which may be why we are pulled away. We cry ever so desperately. Tired eyes look up from sunken in skin: we get bored sometimes, and wondering off is not above us. We'll never come back again, because the monster keeps eating us.

The reprocautions of our actions go unnoticed because Karma is the truly cruel mistress in this world; however, there are these moments in time when we provoke our own karma: prodding at it like a simple houseguest. Those entertaining moments hung on the wall like a portrait and now nothing. The oils of beauty had rubbed off into a grand puddle of understanding. The vivid greens and golds sliding down slate colored walls showing us that behind every other door: there's just another skeleton. The jukebox keeps turning on and the music keeps slapping at my ear. It's not a sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones. The piano's been drinkin', not me. We watched the waitress drop the platter and sputter about, grey with chagrin as we smiled against our tables and thought of the balding spots in our brains. We remembered the night above all others. The dim thoughts rising over the moon, and the sound of trickling taps screamed through the silence. I heard your champaigne laugh, cherry scented, brunette curls tracing off into soft ringlettes. I dreamed that I was dreaming of you, surreal lighting dangling from every heart. There's a light for every broken heart on broadway, but we're walking this red carpet of lightbulbs. The waitress bent over, picking up the aray of broken diches from the floor. "Ah yes, I remember my first beer." I said. She glared at me, and we swore over burning fingertips as we smoked our friends to the filter. Pour me a cab, I can't drink a single bite more.

The back of our car is loaded. Notably there is a quart of Tequila, a quart of rum, a salt-shaker worth of cocaine, mescalin, heroin, and enough ether to knock out America, two pounds of weed, and anything else you could ever think of. The road was bumpy as hell, and what would we talk about? I search of the American dream, high, torn, smashed, shitfaced: we're fucked. The police officer pulled us over, leaning onto the old car that had more chemicals stirring within it's bowls then a Meth lab. What do we say? What id we began raving and jabbering at this man about how bats are eating the manta-ways off the windshield? Would we make that grim connection that this was the portion of the desert that Keven Spacey shit on? We stared into the blinking lights as they passed. We sell dope to get away from the law, and I have yet to understand the contradictions of Humanitarian laws. Let's have a bag full of LSD. Alcohol had that velvety sensation that made us all smile, made us laugh and shrink away our denial. This black man keeps rambling about the compromisable situations of technology. Computers are a dead art: the mullet of technology. Let's take the progressive stance: against abortion, but for the killing of babies.

Ju- Bean says:
she pisses me awf
Gee says:
same here
Ju- Bean says:
*ejaculates in her hair*
Ju- Bean says:
D<