i'm sure it could be found somewhere else than the endless reaches of space, could it possibly be something that hard to acquire? if you really think about it, how do you even know it exists if you haven't seen it, heard it, felt it or held it before, where does this knowledge come from if you have not seen it before? it could be in the room (though i'm pretty sure it's not in this one at current), it could be in your room, it could well be outside the house and down the street, sitting next to the oranges at the supermarket. while 'what it is' is of fairly relevent importance, i don't want to know, i want to bask in the ignorance that it could be anything, anywhere, that i could find the special meaning held to this unknown object to something very near and dear to me, claim some ownership and show it off, not like a trophy wife or something of equal vainity, but as something truely... well true, to me (for we all know the subjective nature of truth), that i can feel pride for. it seems there is becoming less to be proud of as one ages, maybe that's all in the statistics, in the chemistry, the more you pour into your head, the concentration of what one holds as unique becomes weaker and you no longer can taste the salt in the water. so i'm going to try and up the salt content in my mind, start to change my hesitance into conviction and grasp what i really believe to be important in both hands and fully appreciate its existance in my life.

polaroid film is expensive, i don't know if it's charm is worth that much. i wonder if it adds to the assumed poorness of artists...

consumed with getting out all of the blu-tac some stupid random decided to wedge between keys, it's not even my keyboard, why should i care?

peace, love and understanding

there's a crane out the window, resting parallel to the horizon, gently rocking ever so slightly up and down like a see-saw of epic proportions. the art's building clock is still stuck at twelve, i don't know how long it's been like that, or how long it will stay, but it irks me. redundancy steals its soul, meaning as much as time piece as it does as a tree. it'd better if it were a tree, a lot of things would be better if they were trees...

i stopped writing, maybe that's why

peace, love and understanding