Nov 25, 2007

Some Like it PIMEN.




Smoke bellowing through heartening carspace: making mistakes seems to be my only real (ad)vice. I, in my rather normal manner, 've made my normal ones: quiet yet grand with picturesque views and poring women tapping my shoulder before and after my parents pass me around like pies.

Sully the pious, by the by: they unnerve me unilaterally in their disarmament of logic. I, in my steadfast incorrigible nature, 've interested myself only in inimitable intelligencia considering the intransigent way of intangibles around and surrounding the inhumanity of my parent's generation.

Seraphs, listen: strings of spiderwebs are glistening when we sleep outdoors. I, in a quiet period, 've missed them as missives meander past and mention quietly my admissions and admonitions regarding my mentality now mired and missing from my sense of observation.

Soldiers, heads-down, write mental notes and letters: I, while entirely unaware, 've pictured a surfeit of journal words misspelled albeit scattered over blank entries, empty envelopes and enclaves of enemies escaping their grasp like distracting and pheromone-emitting short skirts at sports bars.

See, then, the rational ideal behind open air: there is want nestled in the not-so-northern air. I, sensing a sensual need, 've found necessary these nearby neglects and aberrations, near-pretentious mentalities and knowing my narrow mindsets as if I were Patriarch Pimen oppugnuing the nearsighted atheists.

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