I drove down the highway at a busy time of day. I enjoyed the sights, but not the sounds. We were off to the mountains to sight see; I knew exactly where I was going, but I took a wrong turn and suddenly I didn’t know. The road I was driving upon disappeared before my very eyes and we fell. Somewhere on the way down, the car disappeared as well. We fell for forever, and yet it wasn’t far at all. At the time, it all seemed a bit funny.
I climbed the ladder to fix a burnt out bulb, but I slipped on the way up. The ladder fell on top of me and a step snapped. I attempted to stand, but my legs seemed trapped inside the ladder. Eventually, I succeeded, but the ladder lay in ruins all around me. And now I can’t reach the bulb.
A man approached me on the street, late at night. He told me he felt my aura and needed to speak with me. He asked me to follow him and listen to his words. And he told me he would open my eyes, if only I would allow him. I tried to. And one day he disappeared, but he left me a message, written in blood and bone and dead human organs wrapped in barbed wire. It read, “Go home and pretend to live your life. One day you may open your eyes to the world and you will need to pretend no longer.”
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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I just think it's sad that Shawn didn't write anything for the November quote. I was interested to see what he'd write about.
Rather depressingly I havn't been able to write anything this month, at all. Normally I rifle off half a dozen or often signifigantly more short "things", blurbs of poety and prose, in this span of time. At the very least I'd have done up a proposal or two for work. But I got nothing. I almost stooped to copying something I had writen months ago in here but that would be cheating. On that note:
There is nothing to write about, you say. Well then, write and let me know just this - that there is nothing to write about; or tell me in the good old style if you are well. That's right. I am quite well.
Pliny the Younger (62 AD - 114 AD), Letters
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