23 Feb 2015 5:15:31 GMT
Good morning. Have a safe flight

She flies out today, 9pm, from LA. Fuck. 9am from LA is 5am from here. I guess she gets that in Detroit. To hell with Detroit, the best part about Detroit is the airport. Everywhere else you get shot or mugged by some asshole named after candy. They have this bar in the Detroit airport, Ye Olde Irish Pub. Creative bastards they’ve got there.


41 minutes.

Deadlines, must write. I’ve been fucked up for a week. I’m stuck in my head. Imprisoned in a chemical mind, all I hear are chemical chords. Music, distinct music, like a circus on acid, a neon beanbag plays on. The only thought I have is an electronic marimba.

What the hell are you talking about?

“Well, that’s an interesting point and I’ll take that into consideration. I just prefer to think Hardy is being more optimistic in this poem. I think he wishes he would have led a more positive life. That’s why he’s writing this last poem before he died on his 86th birthday,” the kid said.

Thomas Hardy never wrote anything optimistic in his life, you twit. Read it again. Read his bio. What the fuck are you talking about? Hardy was the biggest pessimist of the 19th century, maybe the 20th century too. Oh, wait, no, not pessimist, realist, or whatever the hell he called himself.

30 minutes.

Walking down the street from a pointless eavesdrop on Thomas Hardy and his optimistic death, idiot, my legs are disconnected. I know they’re there I can feel the burn on the back of my thighs with each labouring step. Tingling flows through my feet as they connect with the pavement below with the beat of that damn glowing beanbag.


Holy shit, don’t sneeze on this shit. Upper body just went numb. Started at the head flowed through shoulders all the way to the ends of my extremities, I wasn’t sure were still attached till that moment of nasal eruption.

26 minutes.

The free design of this free write explodes onto the page from my brain. I must keep writing for the sake of the populous, at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s not that I’m better. It’s that they’re worse. Someone has to stimulate people like that idiot kid and hopefully make his IQ increase by a couple points. Son of a bitch thinks Hardy repented for being an ass on his deathbed.

21 minutes.

Deadline, time ticks away. I’m certain this makes no sense. Random thoughts spewed onto a computer screen. That’s fine it’ll all come together at the end of the adventure, barring I make it and hoping I remember. Connect the cushioned chairs to find the meaning, that’s the ticket. I’m working on it.

18 minutes.

Click clack. Click clack. The French circus rolls on. Tricks on trapeze by men with mustaches circa 1920 direct my thoughts from one wooden grip to the next. Normalcy is what I need. Normalcy returns today, 10 pm from LA on a Boeing 747. System needs to clear out. 7 days straight not knowing where sanity lies will give you a feeling that time itself is no obstacle any longer. Yet, it’s the only obstacle simultaneously, a bitch of a catch-22. Time begins to dissipate in this state. The clock works off an iPhone telling me where I need to be and when, but it fades, slows.

5 minutes

Print. Deadline accomplished.

One thought on “Concerto

  1. Pingback: Concerto | trustmuse

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