Everytime I begin something with ideas of grandeur and so often I fail to give it substance, form, guts. Everything I want to learn only gets to the worlds of makebelieve and waking states where nothing is quite realised. My stories are incredible in their plans and ideas but never prosper. To never finish something is to see plants wilt and die, never yielding their fruits.The camera that I lost on the way here was never found, despite my two day travel back to attempt it's rediscovery. For this, I am given the majesty of memory and forced colours that must ingrain themselves in the backs of my eyes.I must hold something up in my hands regardless of the wreck or its ugly, deformed state for it will breath, it will be alive which is far greater than the abortions I give my all to again and again.Sing, funeral parler, sing, you have had your reign and now it is time for us to dance in different adornments. The fucking black suit does me no good, anyhow, dear paster.
See original: Purple Chicklings,
