

Limited orientationJeremy Carver / September 4, 2003Limited orientation
Sometimes I don’t know what there is to write about. I stare until I feel like my eyes are going to bore a hole through the T key on my keyboard and combust in a fit of thoughtlessness, avoiding the start of a sentence with “the” at all costs. I start to write, but the words don’t come clearly. You never realize how much time you can spend on word choice until you’ve wasted an afternoon pondering the effectiveness of color over colour. Would anyone even notice? I don’t know. I try not to think about it as I stare out of the glass door that leads on to an extended porch. My face


Killing JoyPresumptuous I found me to be, as I wandered home, withhold, a key! of darkness fond, and plastic shape, the metal latch, hid in my capeKilling Joy
and from the door, I turned the catch and suddenly I heard a match struck against the mantle piece my rent deposit, oh no, my lease!
A fire burned the ashes churned I ran for hope a wandering dope!
So to a clearing, a refuge sought, to tear upon a terrible lot of oaks and berries, and poison too, of vagrant cries, not one was true!
I cried until the ashes ran, until I saw a carava


A smith to keyThe fingers dry yet powdered pounded upon the glistening, shimmering, corpse keys.A smith to key
No, authentic.
You tapped them down upon their harness, mercilessly. I listened, with intent.
How should I have known? You cared not for
the music
but for the sensation of tap tap tapping upon the broken shards of
wonderous beasts.
I had no thought, as the melodious tones sparked life into my soul.
Tiny, white, corpses.
Ly
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~tegan
what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful
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