28.May.2003
every dream that i bought that you promised to sell
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nathaniel nicoll, i shall one day kiss your roland sh-101
Insomnia found me contemplating the theory of deus ex machina and its non-existent, literary opposition the other morning. Upon mentioning this to my belligerent paramour, he dead-panned I was in the throes of re-penning literature as it is and always has been known. Beowulf be damned, when its time comes.
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I drank the remainder of my bastard malt beverages three hours ago; dehydration prevails. Anna stopped by after work to enchant my dining room with her voice. I informed her I filled my ice-trays with filtered water. What this says about me as a person, I don't know. She gleefully masticated more birthday cake I prepared for her the day before yesterday.
Most of the people I know in Oklahoma City insist I'm intelligent. It perturbs me, but not as much as hearing I am wise. It is not so much a self-esteem issue as it's the overwhelming fact there is more to grasp in this world. I recognize there is more to gain, learn, digest, evaluate, analyze, much to Socrates' exultation.
Anna embodies an innocence I must have misplaced years ago; I am by no means glorifying naivet�, however it's refreshing to encounter. She is my sweet antipode, soft and hard, a Lao-Tzu dichotomy. She also possesses a penchant to compliment my dialect via showering me with monosyllabic expressions of devotion and admiration. I informed her many of my cronies spoke the same. This delighted her.
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I have built my Canvas (otherwise known as Jubal) a fan-club, though it essentially doesn't take much. I believe the moment anyone encounters his voice is the moment they prostrate themselves before him, or deny his perpetual greatness, due to immoderate amounts of envy. I am also extremely biased in saying such, as he is my metaphorical brother.
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I am exhausted and my shoulder-blades agree. It seems four in the morning intensifies every qualm, insecurity, desire, et al. Besides the lulling sound of the dish-washer, B! Machine (Precious Nate) fills my kitchen, eliminating the incessant crotchetiness which accompanies sore muscles, an empty house, and dehydration. I love these electronically simplistic, somnolently musical utterances so fucking much. I am taking Nathaniel's voice to sleep.
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time & machine