On the edge of these creepy crags, writing when there's no writing to
be had, typing when there's no point to be found, nor coherent thrust
nor inherent goodness...one continues to write anyway, and that's the
point here. we just continue gyrating. The earth knows no better,
continues turning and seasoning and so forth. The seasons and all their
weathers are just having a grand old ball but the earth is just typing
with nothing to say. we're all doing that...in the end, there's nothing
really to sray but what happened yesterday and interesting
recapitulations and for me, text transmorphosising and riding along
with the words. Even the freest wordcombination jonesing is, still, a
complex mechanical feat of engineering for my psychic mind. they, even
no matter how random, probably have some real meaning. There are guys
behind my mind going, "No, NO, NO! You idiot! These are the secrets of
the universe and you're mishearing them! These are tomorrow's lotto
numbers and instead you're talking about ass jackets and cunt