lying here, stoned and dethroned in the unreal yellow half-light of the cool spring rain. im toying with the notion that while it might not be possible to truly think several thoughts at once, perhaps we can conceive of our consciousness as a pair of hands that holds thoughts like stones--picking up one, pressing on it for some time and perhaps holding it close before putting it down and picking up another...

perhaps the things we think and feel remain glowing on our mind's motherboard the way the stones retain the warmth of our hands for some time after we let go of them?

outside my open window the drops fall on the black metal bars of the fire escape, in secret, fated combinations that flash like static in front of my eyes before disappearing forever.

u can turn yr life into art if u make every action the result of yr own specific brand of grace.

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