These days go by quickly, never marking the uniqueness of
each. The writing finished for the last
6 months, spread across the floor from days spent in the summer of 12.
Where did they come from, no one will know, they just
appeared and some word went down.
This writing, read in hours, can you get from this short
time a relationship to the real time of the writing.? Do you extract the facts of time in just one
sitting, can you?
It is something cultivated over a time, surfacing without
directions.
Why would any one want to know those moments? No one wants to know theirs. You get something out of everything you hear.
If you can’t find them yourself, does it help to a have someone, who is in
touch with it theirs?
Taking a look at others will give you ideas of what you need
to see.
Like a child, ever changing; everyday you watch them
grow. A journal, the child of life, growing
with each word, the definition of what is inside, answered with a scratch on
the page. Raw words come out, don’t have to be explain, just flow out of the
pipeline, straight from the earth of your brain.
You can use the words to go with or take them to a refinery
to extract only the vital portions, so you can burn them in your own machine.
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