Perhaps
a day will come in which I will remember everything. But there has never
been a drug that made playing the piano so difficult. There has never been
the sense that other moments do not exist. I'll go back and read what I
have written, but for this moment, how can it exist?
A dog a comb
a piece of tape
You let the
machine off its leash you look into the mirror patched together with bandaids.
No. I don't
remember what I wanted to write.
But I'm writing,
writing. That's the truth but so what. So what.
I'm not a
machine, but I can use a machine. Penguins in my hair.
Well I just
read back over what I wrote so far and I'm not sure I can make head or
tail of it.
shmoetry
Surrealism
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