Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box;
I watched Perfume: The Story of a Murder on DVD the other night. Not as good as the book but the same story for sure. Just really smoothed over and simplified. Still some what interesting, I suppose.
Words and lines are spinning constantly inside and tho the trees provide the paper required, i can't bring myself to let the maps and drawings and letters be born. I can feel the source staring at me, right beyond the limits of my own eye's ability. I need glasses that focus inner vision.
I some what talked to a guy the other night about Astral Projection and he was telling me of a series of books that sounded like something I should read. But I don't recall the names or the subject matter. Something about a Journey into Exile I think, but the book I find while searching for that is nothing at all like what he was talking about.
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns. It calls me on and on across the universe.
In my mind, in tales I tell myself as backstories for drawings that are never told or drawn, New York is some form of magical place where things that are unattainable thrive. Around the beginning of the end of the year they shine bright enough to summon unwise and wise men to leave gifts at the foot of the great building beasts. That time is near in this year. It is bringing new faces to its large apple of a heart and these faces will grow and prosper and bear fruit of their own. It's a place I could never see myself, unfortunately. But I know my friends and people that I consider extensions of myself will love it there. Enjoy it, Charles.
Nothings gonna change my world.
Ohm.
[never decide to type a blog without a topic ready]