Slumber and Until You Wake, You Won't Remember.

What is it about that something missing that transforms us?

Like a forgotten song or an all too familiar voice. It's these things that make it hard to move on to the next step--to change or morph into these plastic aspirations that swirl around us. It's like that bit of epiphany that fizzles in your last sleeping gasps of slumber; the genius that breaks into china pieces the moment you wash the film off your face.

But when it hits you--bullets couldn't wound this magnificently.

I've meant to tell you, really, I have, but at times it feels unnecessary to supply you with such nonsense. My diminishing desire has been only of my notice and I cannot help the transformation. Writer's block is a goddamn bitch, in other words. But in lighter terms, so is emptiness and the void that the opposite sex is supposed to fill. I guess I've printed too much.

But maybe I haven't. Because, well, this world seems to be obsessed with hiding our true faces and a general constriction of the human emotion. If not emotions than invisible things--like time. If Earth was a wrestler, her finisher would be a devastating jugular slam. Grasping Mars by the throat and thrown down into the dark tint canvas. To not notice this trend is tremendous in both human bliss and ignorance. Schedules, calendars, digital clocks, buzzing alarm clocks, chimes at the quarter of the face, subway tickets, airport screens, and last goodbyes are too much. I suppose I should give up my own time too. Because no one seems to release theirs anymore. Why are we based on something that is invisible and blank? Is a second locked up in a glass case somewhere in Paris? Can I shake hands with the hour glass man, proceeding to ask him to go fuck himself? I guess it's a just a seasonal thing. I can't wait till Christmas gets here. I guess now only these goddamn minutes are in the way.

Cheers to fuzzy dreams and drunken aspirations.