Saturday, November 3, 2012

Writings of a Madman.

The following is meaningless:

I don't want to do this, please don't make me

How about I fill up this whole page with with random writings?
Could I then be free from these chains upon my heart and mind?
Chains of silly questions and rhythmic puzzles?

These are the writings of a madman.
Or mad... man rather. For I am mad.

Books with paper so flammable and crumpable'.
How have I not destroyed them yet?
Only God may tell.

Exercises of the head, and food of thought.

I am sick and sore, and so very sleepy.

Words on paper, words in mind, words in pen.

My calculator says 998. That is irrelevant.

Lesson 52, exercise 52. They are one in the same, and one in 75.
That makes no sense. Does it ever?

I write now. Writing is cool. And so are bow-ties.

But alas, I have matters to attend to. For chaaaaaances are,
you will not be amused by my tom-foolery.

To my right stands a bed, and to my left lies a door.
Both are a way out, but the pen and paper are the safest.

School school, work work, slee- school school, work work. As the story goes.

I look above, I see a light-bulb. Then I think of how it gives not ideas.
Idea: Write that down. I think I just contradicted myself

Vision-flash! Vision-flash? What's that? I don't know....

PS. What have I done.