This point is

The point is, to count. Count Dracula. Count Duck. Count Duke. Count duckets. Make things up. Make up the details as you go along. See a stranger's face and instantly know the witty pithy mythic mantra for that man. Instant realization. Instant verbalization. Instant coffee. Instant Karma.
I don't think I'm even really here anymore. I think I got off somewhere after 2013. And that's alright. Shouldn't be here anyway. This whole thing, this whole world, universe, dimension, desperate deduction of dendrites and dementia that is consciousness.... this whole shabang shouldn't exist. It's all so fucking improbable. Unprovable. Mistaken, misspelled, mixed, set, sucked, and fired in a kiln of heat burned bullshit.

That's just the salad course.

There are dreams. There will always be dreams. And they'll die. Fourteen thousand fathoms down in the depth of Jupiter's upper hairline, the plants sway.  The plants sway following the micro changes in pressure, slight aberrations of the wind, the current, the definition of drag plus pull minus freedom. The plants sway in time with time. The plants lean in the direction they are bent. They bend at the point that distracts them from righteous right angles and pernicious perpendiculars. They curve with the curves deemed holy by gravity and Einstein.  There's his name again. And again. And gain. An Dgain. The plants dream their name. They are Dgain. Though that might be the next false hood-rat rapper sponsored by Kanye W. Dgain gonna roll ya. Dgain gonna troll ya. Dgain got nothing but that repeatin, seatin, heart dremel be beatin... refrain. Dgain, Dgain, Dgain, Dgain, Dgain.

There are the moments we wake. Wake to darkness, to reverse twilight, to perfect morning.  Wake to late morning, midday hangovers, unforecasted afternoon naps, the couch all blue and soft and undeniable. There are moments we wake from the week day. The week day pull of constant pressure. We the Dgain, say YA MAN.  The relief of Friday. The Promise of waking Saturday. The New Regrets of Saturday evening into the forlorn lost love of Sunday.

Fuck, I'm Rebecca Black.

There are moments we spend planning the next moment. I've always tried to live at least 3 minutes in the future. Better to know what makes the stranger smile. Better to speak the words of the wind in synchronous with the ear howling message. Steal the thunder from the sky itself. Magic is a matter of perspective. If only murder wasn't crude.

Fuck, cluck. Birde Burd.

What is a forest. A system of parts component to the system. What is a tree. A component part in a system.  Unless that tree cannot see the forest, for himself. What weaves between the blades of grass. The insect or the wind. What matter. If it's all, merely matter. What difference between the sun and shadow. If E = mc^2. What difference between matter and energy. None. None at all. But that's a lie. We know what we know based on how we know it. If we are the sum of our parts, we are the sum of our senses. So what the fuck goes on for the poor deaf, dumb, blind, bastard?  Nevermind, that's a deadend. Bleak. Bleak House. We were at, ...sun and shadow. Perhaps the shadow is a lie. Just as the moon upon the horizon appears larger than at zenith. It's a lie told to the brain by the brain. A shadow makes sense. Sure! Something is blocking the light, so it must result in something darker. But that moon still looks really fucking big yes? If light does indeed curl about the edges just as it streaks about in rays, why this hole in reality made by ourselves?  What are we interrupting. What is prevented, destroyed by our existence, by our perception, by our big cock blocking bodies between papa sun and momma earth. I suspect human brain shenanigans. I suspect a trick. I smell a magician. That huckster is us. That liar is we. The falsehood is our bread and our buttered bread. There's a pigeon up my sleeve, and it's name is BELIEF.

There's some caps for you. Adore the lock of the caps.

I like this, er... forum. I like this cage. I adore the familiar and the subtleties of minuscule change. I fancy taking walks upon the identical path as yesterday. It's ever so calming. And the small changes ever so distinct. I like to follow the groove. I enjoy the depth as the needle digs deeper in the well worn path. I like how the song changes as the wax is deeper carved by the playing of the player. So good. Rules! Structure. Stricture! Confident and Complete. Where am I? I am in the place I planned to be. God help me. Save the fairy tales for the children. We have deeper tales to tell.

Tell tales.  Beating heart under the floorboards telltales.  Left the children at the bus stop telltales. Adopted a bag of kittens and visited the large animals exhibit at the zoo telltales. Bad things. And perhaps good things. That fleeting danger of returning the stranger's glance upon the street. The suddenly reciprocated "hello", "good morning", "shite weather isn't it? ha ha". A man of the earth met and recognized. And I recognized by the earth. By the dream that breathed without the dreamer. By the dangerous unknown.  Allowed to live and fairly spared by chaos. Alive! and Released. Thank you jesus. Maybe his name was jesus. I dunno. He had a beard and long hair.  So, ya know.

Reflections in the doorknob. Movement in the corner of the eye just before blocked and grabbed by the hand. Just before handling. Just before humaning. Just before the observer is himself observed by the observer, and so it goes. Endless hallucinations of me. Of us. C'mon, you do it too!  You see yourself walking, lame, limp, but perfect. You dream you're awake. Waking. You fancy yourself asleep. Sleeping. It's all so impolite. And we're to trust science?!  And we're to trust God!? Show me the bus. Show me the stop it stops at. I have a fare. I made it fine and fair. I wish the Fair. I follow the light. I gather and drink and darken, just like the sun. I'll return. I'll believe.  I'll see myself in the mirror, and discount the signs of age. Discount the evidence of truth. Of sin. Of passage. Of pain and persistent existence.

How have we been here so long?

Shouldn't we have been murdered and fucked by Mongols by now?

Such length of peace unnerves me. Such periods of prosperity and plowshares push me only to fat.

I care not why the caged bird sings. I care only for the beauty of the song, and the cage.

I'm so fucking double spacing now. Why?  I am really dramatic now!?!!

*Grin

Bam! 1,140 words!  Er, 1,144 now... shit 1,146, 1, 147!, fuck.   Full stop.