Automatic writing 1

If I spent enough time perfecting my art I would no longer be an artist, but a machine. I would collapse with the whole weary weight of exhaustion as the pinhole of the world that is my mind’s eye engulfs and spits out a gross, abstract, camera obscura image of insanity. Look here, listen. Do you want to know a secret? I don’t get it nearly as much as you do. I don’t wanna do it just about as much as you don’t. but society dictates that I have to if I want something else (food, satisfaction, women, money, respect. Do I need these things? Yeah I guess so.). Automatic spin-offs of text mean nothing. Touching this keyboard and letting out some sort of organized madness is madness itself. Flooding the whole light of felt tip yearning pages with some notes is silly. Don’t do this because you want to but only if this is the only burning plight you could ever imagine. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, but please don’t tell me I’m right. I only want to exist in my menial space as you do.