I think that my body might still be conversing with a small ammount of rum.
The mornings often find me in some measure of sadness, and I believe that Captain Morgan might shoulder some blame today.
Sometimes, out of pure curiosity, I wish that I could wake up in an insane asylum. I think that the conversations I might have there would be grand. My disconnected thoughts could get lost in all the chatter of crazy.
Instead they just get lost in electrons. A completely different chatter of insanity.
Thoughts swirl in my head like a perpetual flushing toilet.
There was beer at the Cambodian food place. Even more Beer at Franks. At some point, the Captain took us up on our roof to listen to the Brittish Invading on the Rushmore Soundtrack.
I want to be Max Fisher. I want to be epic. Proactive. Inspirational.
I am none of these things.
I want to create things for the world. Pictures that move. Art you can touch. Music that incites thought and dreams and pregnancy.
I just want an opportunity, but that is one gift I refuse myself.
My nose bleeds as if to say "Good Morning".
Good morning nose.
I think that airplanes are not concerned by such petty things as dirt and rocks and trees. But when fuel becomes low, I think they might become very concerned indeed.
I am loaded with fuel, but I'm sitting on the tarmac.
The workers out back have been breaking glass and making noise since nine. Now a woman is yelling at them about a dead phone line. She yells in english, they speak spanish.
