Journal of Life

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's description of the happenings of daily life in the form of an epiphany.

Submitted: March 21, 2016

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Submitted: March 21, 2016



The clouds become an angry Jackson Pollock, splashing etchings of abstract grey forming gigantic strings of an elastic panty. The thunder bolts of Zeus plunged out of his asshole making the sky into farts of a terrible roaring. A stranded sailor was flashing pink lights wanting some mariner to pick him up. How it smells when it rains, soft and fragrant like a baby’s hair. Rain was onomatopoeiaizing into slap a slap a slap a slap a slap a slaparynth. Though I was in solitude, I was filled with nature’s echoes. Birds must be making love in sheltered nests. I listened to the symphony of rain, an amalgamation of millions of whispers.

My body is a wrecked ship for want of love. Intimacy isn’t foreplay and sex; it can be an affectionate hug, a loving caress, a passionate kiss. A whore is a wife who has no feelings. Yes in the brothels of Singapore, the moan in ecstasy when the client comes, for customer satisfaction. Though I have not had an experience, I have read from travel blogs that the whores of Singapore fuck well for bucks.

The earth is wet, fragrant and smiling. She is a contented woman after getting all the delicious pour. Her vagina is filled and over flowing.

The dials of the clock are phalluses making insertions of time. I love the slow waltz of time, the inner crowding of thoughts, the dialogues of the mind in streams of consciousness. To be a writer is to become possessed with a kind of madness. The past is filtered with the presence of the present and figure’s the future as music of time.

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