My mind is sick, and I’m getting worse. I am kind enough to take a lick from the debting curse square on the jaw, fall on the floor, and get back up. But, I am upsetting my rehearsal of things I once saw. Be it a daydream, or a stage scream that I once heard out of the way from a team of banshees in the wings of the auditorium. They made me applaud, but I got it before they begun. You’re right, I could’ve put began there, but begun sounds better with the flow, and you know that is the plan of care that is in place for the residents in attendance. Dead presidents in the bank, for each and every sentence. Like Dickens but more modern, like Tolstoy but less character. Like a roman soldier, a bad mime, and a salty english barrister. The combination wants this nation to rise up from its ashes, from the 39 lashes and be great again. However, determination is one thing, and ambivalence is yet another. We cleverly bring intonation to expatriation which is something of an ambulance if we even bother.
The sickness is expecting more while receiving less. The sickness is truly caring. The sickness is the quickness with which decay for believing in words others have been saying. My lids are heavy but the mind needs release. The sickness is that the words won’t cease. Stories come from nowhere, sentences of thoughts on trains. The sickness is being unable to live with no care until only this generation remains.
What does that mean when I say that? How can I mean to repay that? The words I choose flicker across my lids nearly as fast as I can type them. Faster than I can type them. But close. Rows and columns and cells and prose. Shows and volumes of a true tale that flows.