Forward already to the time of the sidewinding dash! Take to the air before the land below you has solidified. Bait the volcanoes with loud and repeated boastings of unmatched hang time! Spit up your fire, world. I cannot forever remain above you, but I am confident I can remain there just long enough! My footprint is your branding, simple as.
The artist supplies himself by tossing aside. I only have to remove my clothes to speak a little more honestly. I only have to begin again to grow from here. Don't fool yourself, the day's small talk is already fully grown. Life doesn't speak directly until you abandon the pretense of your livelihood. An honest job title is only determined by an unrelated editor after the fact!
Today is a pumpkin grown to be carved. Decide to face the day, and then find a sharpened carving knife. There's nothing to preserve, tempt the open air - your patch is fattening from here to beyond the horizon!
Oh! These thoughts are skipping stones I throw across my keyboard this morning. Henry Miller, your obscenities can hardly pollute the ocean of my unwritten words, and so I like and admire them. (I'll get back to reading you in a second.) A large enough sea, in the end, can cleanse (or at least dilute) anything. Forgive the drowned seekers, even the glint of truth weighs too much to be compatible with flotation. As for me, on the coffee-colored lily pads of my consciousness, I have been thrown, skipping and skipping for so long that I mistake it for floating.