Create in Book Title.

Streams of consciousness are like streamers of paper, easily lost, torn, disposed and unwanted. I’m not sure there’s value to my wanting. I guess I’m the only audience that’s amused by these musings. What’s the value of my entertainment? Is it anything like the worth I’m inherently afforded, as a function of my flesh suit?

I’m a million dollar concept, sentient, incompetent, lacking basic motor skills the morning after a good drug binge. It’s like money in your pocket to watch me deteriorate. I should’ve gotten that life insurance package. You only have to wait three years. I could be free now. Just another rotting cash cow. I could be the answer to the problem of the light bill and overdue rent for this shithole I don’t have to inhabit. I coulda been a dancer or a pole dancer or a smoker or a pole smoker. I guess I am, y’know? Veni Vidi Vici

I’m not full of shit
Some days I miss it
Simplicity is an art
Of the blinded heart
When are we going
To start with knowing
The prize we win
By jumping right in
I’m not sure I ran
Just because I can
Or towards a light
I’m not that bright
I can never tell
Heaven from hell
Consulting a coin toss
Head’s win, love lost

Last updated February 10, 2016