the pond

Well that's impressive, in a way. There's this needle and thread I just found. The needle went right in my leg. I pulled it out without a second thought. Needles are like vapors for those with hearts of butter.

Well that's impressive. Indeed it was. Indeed things have been, in a way. I can feel these tidal mood changes. I can feel the wavering presence of my doubt. This fucking doubt, that eats me like a block of Black & White cheese. I swear that's not even real cheese. 

Well it was impressive. They impressed me so. In a way or two: in several. They have a taste and a manner. They have bluey-bluey eyes that are reserved only for those of some sort of noble family. It's a blue blood, of sorts; it's a lineage. There's only so much one person can do; a lineage, on the other hand, is different. A following, a gathering of poise, taste, and rosy cheeks: a lineage can sweep a large space. A space perhaps larger than my living room (which I rarely use, being solely occupied by a blanket and some soft drink cups that were long left there, forgotten).

Well that is bloody impressive, in more ways than one. It is to me, at least: the wanderer. Look, I'm not really, I'm not really. I'm not; I have a center: it's my bedroom. But I go about and I do ludricous things at ludricous times. I'll wake up in a strange barn with old vehicles. That's not who I am, it's just what I do. And so I suppose, they have swept away large impressive areas, and belongings that could have been mine, borrowed or used. And I just stood there smiling, glad and stupid. Had it been any other occasion I would have adored them. But there's always something wrong when I pull needles out and it barely hurts, in a sense, an excusably mild poetic sense, if I may say so. It would really make my day if I could be poetic, just for once. Anyway, what I'm trying to say, but it won't come out, is that there's something wrong when I pick up that stringy 6-chord apparatus, that verse-and-chorus music maker. There's something wrong when you're not wailing a senseless sonic beat to them guitar things, but rather holding it like a dear friend, patiently blasé, waiting for it to reveal the answers to all your afflictions. Afflictions we make so huge, in our heads, when they are in reality so minor. I mean, really. Who am I to judge? I'm just a block of cheese. 

Indeed. The impressionists hit the spot. I just wish, and have the fondest hope that everything is quite alright, and that it's not too cold outside, in the pouring rain.