write write write write write until you start making sense. ignore the oppressive 90 degree heat that lingers all night like a jackal, a vulture, a scavenger waiting for you to finally succumb to madness. swallow the urge to sit on your porch and chainsmoke until your inner temperature equals the external, stewing in your own sweat like a slow-cooked ham, minus cloves, cause tobacco's better anyway. your throat is dry but your fingers don't require your voice. your eyes sting but you know where most of the keys are anyway. your head hurts, but the molasses-slow drip of thoughts is easing the pressure. it's turning to water, flowing downhill to the ocean's inevitable embrace where one drop is indecipherable from the others... you are trying to catch pterodactyls with fishnet stockings, but you can write the hosiery anyway you like it, make your own metaphors, draw your own comparisons based on things you've only heard of in dreams, half-remembered images that you can't relate but you must or you'll explode and then you'll never be able to sleep again, with a sieve mind dripping your thoughts onto the desktop; the echo will keep you awake forever.
don't stop, don't move from this spot, don't. even. breathe...
xFx
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