pelican
I was once a child, and when I was that child and I was unaware of the space between me and everything else, I stood too close to the road, and a vehicle, larger than anything I could imagine, nearly ran over my toes. A lorry, was it? Yeah.
I wish I had a typewriter, because nostalgia is a weird thing; I've never owned a typewriter yet I feel like I have, and I don't know why I feel like that. Isn't that weird. Ha ha. Hah hah. Hah.
Defy yourself. Defy your limitations; defy your prejudices. You are better than you tell yourself.
the paradox is, you know, until I write I won´t write. I won´t write until I write. My writing is blocked by writing. A creative wall facing a creative wall.
complexion of the wall was a silvery surface like cutlery; the shingle of spoons glittering after a wash.
The owner of the bicycle couldn't find the bicycle. The owner of the bicycle couldn't see the bicycle. The bicycle could not find the owner. The owner contemplated his bicycle; sat down and cried.
There were many trails leading through the forest, and they would've been a joy to skip through, but I was too tired and I just stayed at home to play Monopoly. I lost all my money in the first fifteen minutes.
Eleven!
ELEVEN!
The number sat, unlistening, open newspaper hiding an indifferent face.
take off--she said. why? I said. Because I had to, she said, because---because I had to--I had to--don´t you understand? I thrust out my wings, I jumped, and the wind was sharp. I was running out of time.
The lantern did not light. No oil. No candle. The fire died before it was born. It was an empty carcass, a life missing a heartbeart.
load more entries
writing since 1969 · 84 entries · 83 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Antonio showed up.
5longest streak
83days written
0entries / week
the words Antonio reaches for
upontorchtwentyblockswritelevelwaterseabicycleclosedeathhomearmsnumberexistwall