Stimulants in the morning, depressants in the evening. A familiar pattern my appearance slattern-y, no flattery I’m getting fatter-y, looking at the Louvre reviewing my oeuvre, pretentious people next to me, pretend just dichotomy, a just dichotomy? What a mess I confess, tore your dress TORE? Out on the street drinking beer, I have nothing to say myself I’m just writing down what other people are saying, how it twinkles at night, that’s just magical the Eiffel Tower, burping drinking bloated I’m not that thrilled about that modern art. What the hell. Pompousdo Pompadou. What the hell do people write about these days. You know the French are so…The the the the thing is the thing is I’m just writing to write, I’m just putting ink on the page. Ink on the page ink on the page what does a pen hold what does a mind hold can you ever suck out a mind suck the thoughts and turn them into words take all in your brain and put it on the page and, well, no, you can’t, it’s a mediocre medium, I like that, a mediocre medium. Champs dElysee whatever, impossible to take all you could say impossible to convey all that’s there. Like a pen. No, not really. But, funny enough I was holding a pen and the comparison occurred to me. Ink. Ink can write anything. There’s a quantity of ink in there, it can make words or lines or a great big blob and that’s not too different from a brain.
Puddentain Puddentane Puddin’Tane
People actually live in these caves
Barrels are made from staves
We saw where Leonardo di Vinci spent the last three years of his life
No other feeding does it like the fall. I have to stop this. We went through all the vineyards. That’s when I went, during the harvest. I’m sitting on the boat, people back from France on my right young couple with small child on my left, man reading paper in front of me.
Making the turn, I want to get out of here.