I may moonlight

dietary concerns and an inability to quit cigarettes have been haunting me for the past few days now. i say inability, but really i was doing alright. that is, until excuses multiplied and the apparent implausibility of it all exposed my lack of any real will power. a horrible groan of reality and of giving up. i eat badly, and do so largely out of laziness. my thought for the day is always "i must eat more vegetables" or down one of those god awful juices, get into shape or steal a shape and pass it off as mine. i am too tired to string this together. lack of vitamins you see. some other time maybe, when it doesnt seem so forced, so empty. i commit myself to this nothing for now. they tell me i should write something every day, so here it fucking is. i will never make it as a writer of any substance, not because i cannot write, but rather, i cannot breathe. so fuck you and your books about writing, fuck finding my voice. this is me. telling you, and myself, to fuck off. i desire nothing more now than the dirtiness of a soul. to drink wine in the sun and write, possessed, about imaginary lifetimes i could have had if i didnt drink wine in the sun. this glamour/mud.
i need and need and need. it is so awfully tiresome. and there is nothing more tiresome than a man who cannot stop repeating himself. this is the last thing i will write for some time. there is no artistry left in me now. it has given way to cold reason and thoughts of why. why bother? why dream? those questions answer themselves like monastery bells but yet i feel voided, violated in my murky spirit. how dare you be so calm, so full of mystery. how dare you make me need to understand and fear it most of all. how dare you get sick and leave me with this stopwatch to juggle, thinking i will never know you or you me. i cannot explain all the things i want to. i am robbed of the means with which to express myself, for what? decorum, etticate, his fucking words, not yours/mine/ours. in my perfect selfishness i need to feel. and you taught me, by allowing him to break you, that it is too much.
there are more things on heaven and earth, grey shades everywhere and nothing solid anymore. those that progress i percieve as simpletons, those that fall deeper, fools. and in this stagnated corpus i am both and neither and everything.
when ever someone has a powerful thought, one of an intensity akin to love, a bubble forms. while they sleep the bubble floats out their ear and ascends skyward, awaiting that blissfull moment when it is reunited with other bubbles of its kind. that is when the bubbles get their power. they merge as one, and it is for all the world as if they were never parted, for the thoughts that produced them were the same. these bubbles grow large, up there in the sky, but as a bubble grows it become volatile, unstable. the weight of this emotion forces the bubble to tear, and this tearing is what makes thunder. the torn bubble spews out the thought it contained, all over an unsuspecting world below. it fills up buckets and drains, resevoirs and potholes. it soaks people to the skin as they walk. and sooner or later everyone is saturated by the thought, not knowing where it came from. and they are confused, and act with enormous stupidity. this in itself would be ok, but not all bubbles are made from good thoughts. some are made from very bad ones indeed.