swampwater captured sound

“the man who speaks in quotations has nothing of his own to say”

wish i could remember who said that.

days upon days of a listless pissy rain. the yellow crust of pollen washing down into sickly rivulets at the bottoms of everything. spring is melting and spoiling me. three decades old and all the bones are creaking, standing up too quickly unleashes explosions of pops and crackles. static man. frozen in time. forever low man ebbing out of cracked speakers. mired in a pointless sobriety, everything is just stark and flat. i feel the sound reverberate off my empty walls. more moments ever passing.

the bottom of my brain pan must be littered with crimson flakes as i’m grinding rust off all the edges in some sort of effort to put things in motion and lurch forward into motion. how long spent in stir with the bare minimum of effort expended, settling into this beastly hermitage with no end in sight.  the old moss gatherer, piling stones in heaps along the riverbanks, monuments to some damn thing, just as quickly forgotten. scraping knuckles on a battered pickup in a dark room. forever unplugged. mixing static into soup, wishing for far-away places and half-remembered dreams to please make sense. just once, a finished conversation.

clearly, this person was too lazy to update their blog so you’re seeing this default message in its place. what a waste of resources. i hope this blog owner understands how much hard work and childrens’ souls it took to get this place off the ground. some people just don’t have any appreciation for anything. if you see this blog owner on the street, please give him a swift quick in the ass for us.