An epiphany of presence struck me one summer. The sun was out and I didn't care, lying in the grass a thought passed through. What if this moment is the first of conscious reality? Or now? Deep dreaming, we are writing our own fates. Viewing the tape of destiny. Waiting to go to work. Making this time my own and putting it on the blockchain.
Sitting in my apartment alone, I'm 36. Some kind of professional, running from a small town to a larger one. Moving on but without place or target. My walls are empty. My piano unpluggd. Memory seems drug out behind me like a hallucinatory trail. Red and orange lines across your perception of aging and experiences. Swallow it down to go to sleep, keep it under your tongue to stay awake.
I am the marker in this place and time. I am the dog eared page of now folded over and creased. I am a romantic maniac liar in love with the edge of humanity. These are my stories, poems and things smashed together. A strange tear through the heartland, leaving both myself and the onlookers asking "why?".
