paragraph 175

says appleseed cast songs play loud and droning over cold choir guitar sounds. this city breaks under the weight of my listening ears. I am turning out a few new leaves and making good on a few old regrets promises, making money out of tiles and tiles from ashes (pasts)- books.
Heard rambled builds like fist (the secret one on adrenaline) and comes back around earning the right to end up anywhere where souls fall and fearless eyes shake heads and reach out hands on street-corners to hail cabs. This is the last of transparencies.
And then chatter, Iím hearing from both within the itunes audio file program Iím thumbing mentally through and from outdoors where children race big wheels and toy carts across the pavement. People are smiling everywhere today.
Blocked into the turning wheel of seconds clicking by, a digital moment (one that passes by in sighs, dread, not openness) and fingers wrap around a beer bottle, a chance grab at fairness, closure, winning something anything at all: a contest started by the gods in honor of our arrival.
Across the room, a sliding ring of smoke runs up the sides of the wall and disappears (nothing goes anywhere anymore) and I can still tell where it used to be, I can still tell how it used to affect the world around me and know that me, just sitting there, watching it waft off and fade to oblivion in minutes has changed me the way everything changes me the way that every second is a hundred thousand rebirths a great tide sweeping across every room and molding shaping building something (from nothing) and nothing (from everything). Isaac brock, what?

2004-10-22 | 11:22 a.m.
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