making lists

i.
they illuminated the water of short-stemmed violet orchids growing out of little rounded glasspots by the tinted window. i can only think of pastiches. it's too much. my mind is a mess.

ii.
a little black mark. i'm undecided on whether to portray it as cancer, a tick bite, or as some little careless puncture wound i caused myself while wasted. either way, i can't write about it anymore. it's done.

iii.
the apocalypse happened. it was less exciting than the ones of my dreams where there are flying spheres of energy, and flawed good|evil characters who are all inherently human and susceptible to loneliness and love. the world always goes on afterwards. i wonder if this means that not too far deep inside, it means i've got a romantic disposition towards life.

iv.
boom! destruction! i don't know which i am. who killed me if i am despair?

i am post-buddhism juxtaposed with desire; i need to sort out myself. (repetition on disorganization of self. this is not a good night for this.)

v.
shade cord tinkling against wine goblet in the wind

vi.
what is existence but thought? ouroboros. beginning touches the end. following the loop. also, buttsex, if not eating the self.

vii.
too many bullshit epiphanies.

viii.
mario. this is a whim, like doritos.

ix.
i had a girlfriend. she wasn't depressed or anything, but sometimes she would take safety pins, and push their tips against her back until her skin broke, and the tiniest bit of the metal went in. she would use a different safety pin for each little puncture. then she would wait until they started to heal, and would go shower. i watched her do this every time she had writer's block.

x.
goodbye and hello, as always.
(digging up zelazny and amber for clarity tonight)