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Cleaning out the brain panNeed to un-clutter my brain. Need it out. Need to get it out. I need to focus. I did my driver's test the other week, passed it after a failing first attempt. Fuckers got me on the technical questions. Turns out I'm too cautious. But oh well. Have to keep typing. Can't stop. Need to get my mind focused. Wonder how actual writers do this for a living? Just force themselves to sit there and write? Huh. I'd end up falling asleep if I did that. Maybe if I did one of those five hour energy drink things, I could hunker down and stare hard enough for words to come out. Have you ever heard of The Eels? They're pretty awesome, even if it is just one dude. He's pretty freakin' talented. One man band, in a sense. He's a pretty good singer, even if his voice is a bit gruff. His songs fit his voice. Have to keep typing. Need to keep typing. I wonder why I hate my sister. It's not like I have a proper reason, at least not as a starting point. After a while I just didn't like her anymore. Same
A bad prologue to a bad novel~~~~~~~
Rain pitter patts across the graveyard, the fat drops drawn towards the blue, makeshift tent covering a burial. A large crowd, mostly men and women in dark, pressed, police uniform, some small families, a few random loners, all surrounding the open casket at the center of the unhappy mass. The occupant of said pine box is a tall older man, graying brown hair, stone faced, and his wrinkles, now worn grooves adorning his face, marks of pride honoured by hard working men. A brass police badge shines brightly on his chest, his arms draped at his waist and his fingers loosely crossed as if he was praying. Two figures are standing opposite the priest, just some feet away from the casket, a woman and a young boy, are his wife, a short, raven haired woman with a hand over her mouth, trying to cover her sobbing; And the child, just a nine year old boy, is his son, his hair contrasting his mothers with golden yellow. Eyes cracked with red fissure-like veins mix with steely anger show the
A short story and blatheringA man and his house
If one looks about the sky at a certain time of day, on a certain day on the calendar, in a certain place on the map, they'll see a small cloud floating by. The cloud is quite special, in its own right for atop its fluffy climax; it holds a man and his house. He is a normal man, bathes and shaves in the morning, eats toast with a little butter and jam, reads what literature he has while in the restroom, and even leaves for work after breakfast. The house is normal as well, it has no supernatural powers, it has lights that flick on and off with the touch of the switch, it has a glass window on each wall and a small porch out front. They simply float by, viewing the world from a large height. No one knows how it got onto the cloud, or how it stays on it. No one knows how the plumbing and lights still work either. They simply do.
You could call what the man does at work, 'work', but it really isn't. He simply walks through his door and strolls along avenues and alleywa
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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