I
Boarded the bus to Montreal @ 8:20, 20 minutes late. Hungry and tired with no sleep. Can't sleep. I want to make art out of life and daily living (Ken Kesey). My words are growling like my belly.
I am being driven down an endless stretch of ribbon which rips through repetitive, indescribable nature, unfolding in endless variations of God. There is no one on this road but us: the halflifes, the undeads, the sleeping saints motioning @ 100km/h through limbo. Waiting to thaw to life by the dawn of urban breath. Until then, sleep and ignore this track of life.
II
So I am left here, with the option to calm and clear and write to explore the deepest crevices of logic-cum-memory-cum-inspirations. Along endless scroll is set before. The road never ends and it never covers regretted mistakes. It only moves on leaving a thin trail of heat exhaust and rubber behind. Indiscernible beyond that left by every other. White, black, loud, sick cars, no differences. We are all encumbered by consciousness, all running here and there and sitting boredoms in between. We all murmur out our lives, loud or not, enjoyable or deafly.
Cursive is the lost art of endless road. And now in it I struggle for consistency, cohesion. If exaustion does not get the best of me I will continue, if my mortal state shall not need rest, I will fly it towards those who have no qualms with eternity. With love, on a bus, sharing two seats with inspiration: a travelling mathematician who is ready to flirt with you if you've worked hard enough on a humble temple for him to visit, to stay in.
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