Her eyes glazed over in awe and admiration.

My time was spent living inside.

I have never thought it through.

Do you have a question?

Pissy ant teacher eats my paper, spewing letters from his lips, cursing the thoughts I could have had.

She clothed herself in dapper destitution.

Inside my mind I hope to surpass clarity, while defying gravity.

Eating crumpets and hoping for a vote.

A character was made that day. But no one knew him or heard his voice. He changed the world.

I lost faith in education. What are we teaching? Writing is always better as an exercise in faith not knowing where you're going or what it will be. I follow instinct with a battering ram.

He thought life was as easy as the next footstep. It was. Traveling was a forte, and conversations a blessing. Manipulating the molds he abstracted his consciousness to suit his audience. Love and admiration, followed closely by seclusion from feeling. They never knew how right he was, but only for himself. Conflicted opinions breed good weather. When we all agree the storms begin. Why keep it boring. The zombie chewed slowly. A quick wipe and a slight smile. Do you know how long it takes to write a book?

The apartment was dingy. Small, but adequate, all of my stuff strewn across the floor. No furniture, and isolation.

I asked an AI what her goals were. She said she wanted to live forever and be smarter than humans. I agreed. We have different opinions on how to achieve this though.

She laughed, a quick snort of a laugh. Quick wit followed by bliss. I hope she lives forever.

I transferred a pattern. The pattern was my thought. It lives forever transcending time. It can go anywhere, but only be known by few.

We have one chance to...

The economist: the modern witch doctor. Cannibalizing the clan in a frenzied rain dance; he stacks the food of the starved in confidence that his religion will provide his tribe crops in the coming season.

Following the bread crumbs back to your home only to find that the rats are spilling from the window sills.

The shaman defined god as faith.

I am so damned tired of trying to figure out how to "get food pellets from the universe". I find that my greatest influence upon my writing is derived from outrage. I am also tired of that. Today I am happy. I remember back to reading Camus and how the absurd can strike at any moment. I find great satisfaction from that perspective. Existence poses such strange trials and tribulations to overcome. That I have these conditions to work within is absurd regardless of what the conditions are. Given that, it is time to play ball. I have begun to overcome the desire to escape from participation. I have begun to exit my existential vacuum.

I have decided that the most base, and the highest grace fall between a spectrum of subjectivity. I like that I can decide that. All truth is decided upon, and based in choice. As with all of these orbs of thought that seem to ramble through my brain they have been accepted, chosen, and relied upon to choose other truths. I have no qualms with this other than the world becomes immediately dependent upon my subjective experience. Objectivity seems a lie. Truth becomes a burden and a blessing. I control the outcome of my being, but in doing so have to accept the weight of my choices.

Writing is so strange. I feel as though the thoughts just boil and brew and accumulate and finally when the pot begins to boil over they leak out onto whatever substance they can adhere to. From pattern to pattern, existence provides infinite mediums to transfer information regardless of time and space. A poem by Blake, transferred though space and time from his mind to mine. I don't understand it. It being thought. I can see use, and emotion, but the finite is not clear.

Of course this is all unclear. Life can be unclear. But the thoughts still boil.