this space filled with placeholders like mannequins like first drafts like sketches . that weightless non-committal holding together of not functional being . there was no space for something substantial no space for something tangible .
damp grass from the hillside is cold on my feet as I walk hands in my pockets and head looking down legs leading slowly downhill towards the sea.
There's something about going for a walk that makes it easier to think even if you completely ignore your surroundings or don't go very far.
The sand surprises me the soft white powder that shifts between my toes and my feet slip a little with every step.
For the first time in a while, I look up the sea is darker than usual, it's turbulent as well, but I stop for a moment on the edge of the water.
Imagine If I fell in I'd probably turn into driftwood and then just float off until the water pushed me up onto some deserted beach and then pulled me back in and then pushed me up again eternally caught in the space between sea and shore
the space between here and there between is and isn't between impulse and inactivity
Come enter the darkness Come witness a monster, a man Of features of a rare creature With a clear path for a seeker With a life of a greeter. Stay warm in this cold world with heater Away from the gangsters and strippers. Join the growers and hipsters. Free like in the Castro and Mission. Always in the corner, being a loner, getting high like a stoner, being awake unlike an employee and being free. Don't you see the system of delusion where they draw the conclusion but it's time take back the power and find a resolution And lead to a revolution
Mind blasting with actions Living up to the name of Maksim I'll smash it while you crash it I shiot to the moon while I blast it Never wasting my time with humans lacking passion who stuck at the first station while I hustle to live in a mansion you chasing while Im embracing the chaos and Stand solid on the soil living royal as the ace with a strong base and never chase because I'm ahead of the race. Smoking purp in the Berk on the curb Staying high as we fly and surf Through the sky with the crown on my head, taking charge and staying ahead so I'll continue tomorrow because it's time for bed
i. what a mess you’ve made of me cause i’ve spent so much time in your eyes lately and i like the way you smile when you're falling apart over last call at the bar i swear you look at me like i just lifted a car (surprised and confused and afraid and amazed) when i’m raving like a mad woman about climate change and you keep the drinks coming and my heart pumping all night long.
ii. the grey area is not where good love goes to die it is where good love is never born thighs are kissed but hearts are not broken and those of us who dwell there prefer it that way (but i don’t mind if you stay)
iii. though i would have preferred if you’d kissed me earlier and hurt me less, with you i always take what i can get i want you to teach me everything you know about making love and weapons of mass destruction (why do ugly thoughts consume such a pretty mind?) come here, baby i am not the bad guy.
iv. and i’ve been feeling restless like my chest is on fire thoughts twisted up i told you with me its never enough (and then it’s too much) electrify me just to pull the plug don’t you know it’s better with the lights on? i’ve never felt so ******* untouched as i have these last few nights passion isn’t patient but timing is everything, right? (i knew you’d change your mind)
Inside, Wendy could hear him typing. The click and clack sounds of a typewriter had grown monotonous to her, a never-ending drone, so unlike a human heartbeat.
Jack said, “Wendy, let me explain something to you. Whenever you come in here and interrupt me, you’re breaking my concentration. You’re distracting me. And it will then take time to get back to where I was.”
She placed her hands up on the doors and put her ear to the wood, listening.
Click and clack, click and clack.
Jack said, “When you come in here and you hear me typing, or whether you don’t hear me typing, or whatever the ******* hear me doing; when I’m in here, it means that I am working. That means don’t come in.”
Jack asked, “Now, do you think you can handle that?”
Wendy liked to believe the best sound in the world was the sound of creation. Jack favoured the clatter of typewriter keys. Wendy preferred the sound of laughter.
Wendy wondered, with all this typing going on, if she could still keep her place in his heart.