The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man


My mind is a formless seascape, a fourteen hour foray into an uneventful and terribly lucid wake. I am stem, fluid steam traversing from here to there in minutes.

In other news, I am not funny. This can be noted in places too numerous to link, and I would be up way past me bed time of half past never. If you seek validation of these purports, read my comments and shudder up my untainted veracity, it is dark and too keen on foreboding to exact an exegesis.

Blatantly, I am verbose. Have you seen it, with your watery eyes? As the Germans would say in the old days of Germanistic discovery, Nein. Tens upon tens of Nein. I am no longer the eager officer in a tunnel with turbulence, an engineer of stability of turbid space.

My skull hurts like potted plants.

Don't ask. Suffice it to say that my myths are not my own. That much is apparently, a rambling paroxysm of baleful glee. A Cheshire grin that is true Modality of sorts, where I am neither parts. Smiling in chaos, an African nation full of plaintive tubers and pinkening pastries. It is there eyes that see. Granting sight through a sordid fairy tale. Talking of three: a mirror non-reflecting; a lynx in scintillating regalia; a green man hidden in razed mazes; em-broulliard; wistful searching; freakish compulsion to distort; oscillating virility; virile; not virile.

These are the ways of the unseen, a rambling ghost of tribute, of psychopathology. Huntington's disease, tricotillomania. Famine of mind - a languid life unceasing in speaking through skittish voices.

Unsaid, it is undone.
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