I am a pretentious fart. Ugh.

Lack of attention to detail. person with no identity, distinguished or not. only blank spots. reading stories. unnamed characters probably swish through the contours of her mind. they overlap. disconnected, incoherent patches. alternating voids. flat voids.
Few tactile structures. subjects. State, race, colour, sexual organ. being.
Rest, undifferentiated, unidentifiable. A blob.

Adherence, coherence, structure and punctuation are constricting.
That will be my excuse.

The Proposition

seemed bizarre, unlikely. Desired. Deserved?

Metaphors elude me like ideas to the writer’s block.

Agency is constantly questioned. The ‘battle’ is not-new. And where one strives for disavowal and simple pleasures in the garb of ‘happiness’, I try to pass this off as the writing on the wall.

it's that time of the year again.

I can't write.

amongst other things...

Shambles of morality and society.

Poor Lo was eager to please

and stereotyped(s).

...

my entries are always very reproachful.

for the lack of understanding, perhaps.

or the lack which i might never be able to fathom.

Odd

You sit next to her. Arms not touching.
Her face reflected in your brown, taciturn eyes.

That night seems like a long lost memory.

I take refuge in needles.
And your caresses are summoned like Helen's ghost.

Mephistopheles, Fiend!

Complacence

There was a king. His was a small territory.
There were swarms of angels floating by to keep his dream alive.
And he refused to get out of his melancholic slumber.

Period

Figure.
I would want to know if it was.
But I wish I didn’t have to.
For, one had all the fixtures in mind. So I swished and twirled to the rhythm, and an incomprehensible language. And I walked by, for the whiff of stale smoke. I tasted salt on your skin and fought with the ghosts of your past. It was over, you said. And I brushed it off with my nonchalance (at least I wished to).
I killed you.
Even Tiresias couldn’t prevent it.
And I failed, even at making stories.