Old Stream of Conscious Note 1


I am warm with fear I sweat a viscous unnameable thing that might closely identify as death.  My jaw painfully locks, which is a slight reprieve from its constant nervous chattering.  The heat from my terrorized brain melts solid ice at a distance. I have been here too long.  The hot fearful beast longs for the climate of cool clay to lay his weary body into.
But there are unknown things undone. So I will continue to plod this scorched earth ever fearful of the next turn.


Then suddenly to my knowledge mortality made me realize that even through my inexplicable anxiety no human interaction really amounts to anything unless I will it to.


My meaningless life. Like a dim candle caught inside a turned over glass. Desperately trying to make the most of the thinning air.

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