riding on the way back from Italian with my Ipod on and in my ears...

thinking: what a great symbol that this was a gift from Mrs. Edwards.

what happens to all these things that I think to myself late at night?

to be romantic, I imagine a seed flicked away into the winds of a desert (assuming of course the desert cannot sustain said seed).

I am up late and I think these strange thoughts, and I feel like they should lead to places, yet they exist free of the symbolization resulting from coincidence.  

exist, a moment, dissolve.  pop.

I'm so new at this game... aspiring to think objectively.

I want to think in an authentic way.  When I conceive of an idea free of symbol, I recognize the feeling.

Talked to her today, finally.  A cellist and polite and with a gentle voice.  When I am 30 or 40, with a balding head and the hint of a gut, I will not talk to women this way, and I'll have more time alone with my thoughts.  I like the freedom, but the advantages are there and distract me.  When I am 30 or 40, I'll have a favorite chair for the sunset and hours while the light dissolves.  Maybe then I can think in an authentic way.

I like conversation best when one implores another to speak, and the cycle continues.

couples walk into wal-mart with blank faces, perhaps a hint of disgust.  it's like when you were in elementary school, pushing the opposite poles of magnets together; you can hold them close, and yet the tension is there.  what are they looking for on these shelves, on this thursday afternoon?  has this replaced a quiet conversation or the simple pleasure of company one and the other?  some are young, some are older into their 50s, and they all have guts (and presumably multiple prescriptions).  their clothes are disinterested like their expressions.  browsing I suppose.  as if "browsing" at wal-mart were some sort of justification.

just divorce already.

it's not adhd, learned sir, and i don't want your coke either.

i can't sit down for a long time.

meditation comes only in sleep.

the tv is an overwhelming,

incoherent march, like soldiers

without a war.

i can't focus for a long time.

i spend time thinking about time,

how it escapes me, or more rarely,

how i might escape it.

i'm a product of a productive place.

it's replaced everything.

i'll never write a fucking novel...

verklarte nacht

it takes six instruments to create an ocean of angst, melodies close to the surface, gleaming with the twinkle of sunlight, accompanied by harmonies of a deeper texture, dark and unknowable to affected ears, requiring full attention and yet spinning listeners into daydreams.  

(how is it...)

the rise and fall of lines converging-diverging, the trails of sonorities making for a colorful track, authentic and transcending music into a pure form of expression, liberating to ears numbed by modern shit, the adagio begins with unexpected warmth, the radiance of a courageous-unjealous man.

(how is it even...)

the resolution rushes in like chemicals or oxygen to a deprived brain, words into music and music into atmosphere, the sounds dissolve like a 1950s coke into my ears, dripping with sugar-sweet satisfaction in the knowledge that one of our own species could contain such undeniable genius, such truth in art.

(how is it even conceivable that someone could write that?)