Sitting on an awning., hey y'all good morning.

I find your provincial wailings to be blissfully, no, artfully ignorant. And I envy how lucky you are.
It was nice when I could run from my problems like you, or like you, or like you. Or like you even.
And when you look my way, you see my mask, no, my sculpture I've created for myself to stand in my place, whilst I beekeep.
And when you look at me (which you don't, but the rest do) you wish you could love a sculpture, but of course that would be stupid because a sculpture cannot love you back. Or so I've discovered.....

You will never be able to answer my question. Because I will never ask you.
I will never press my arms against the heat of you....I would not touch you with a lengthy pole.
Challenge is just a word that people use to make themselves feel stronger.
Do you feel stronger? Because you shouldn't. Because anymore my mind cannot be changed......I can't cater to your fishing. You sad thing.....you aren't even a challenge.

I love how this blog applies to exactly 22 people. Currently.
I love my narcicism. How could I not?
I love how my problems consist of having far too many options, rather than the classic 'focus longingly on a closed door' scenario.
I love being a secret.

All things you never said are left behnd.
All the things that flit on your protagonatory countenance, are only important to the cells of your mind.
All these chairs wrapped in foam and leather, that may or may not recline, will comfort you.
All these ringtones you buy are a jingling cacophony of what will fall on it's knees and fade like a destroyed nintendo villian.

My prayers have been answered.
God has whispered peace into my ears.
There is a part I can't tell you or any breathing thing.

I saw a young man. He wants to sing. I pressed my hands against his stomach, and he pressed his hands against mine, in order to feel breath. I wish everyone could feel breath. There is beauty about releasing the staleness from you. There is a beauty about living.

You are like the breath; when you are stale, I release you, and when you can bring me life, I pull you back in. Selfish but necessary. It's how we survive. And I don't feel sorry for the air, nor will I feel sorry for you.

If you find me, after I have escaped....that is the moment I will believe you have a chance of deserving me.

Why do I write these? It's a form of relief.

Pardon my impertinence. It's your turn.

It's been said before: The more I get to know people, the more I like myself.

I'm spent......half of this is nothing......I'm barely coherent.....