this is an exercise. where in you type whatever comes to mind-


been feeling a bit dry above the neck as of late. an arid breeze blows warm through the channels and corridors of my brain. it turns me dull, like the sand in a breathless afternoon desert. the heat pounding me from above, sapping the liquid from within, leaving me parched and starving for hydrants. thoughts crawl towards an oasis only to find a mirage. a fantasy pool where life once grew, like those fields of poppy the riders pass by during the tour de france. now nothing remains. its barren. and as the sun sets on another day the air only grows colder. a mind becomes uncomfortably quiet.

take 2-

twice today i felt like snapping. moving back to that stockade prison. the red double doors on the corner lot leading to a small garden in the back. the loft. the pub around the block. the destitute and weak standing across the street from the bus depot. the jazz club up the street where the sound of nothing happening plays over the trumpets and wails. the memories of a time that remain lost. the death. that small garden in the backyard of the loft through the red double doors now seems pointless. nothing could ever grow in that stockade. the earth has been tainted there. soil has turned to clay, soon to shale, then to slate. a move to that hole would be like running from your shadow. the undeniable feelings of sinking into anonymity would soon follow.