Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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Category: Dreams
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Stella can't admit she is an artist. How presumptuous and downright impractical! Where's the money in watercolors and song? Stella's mind and soul are always in a state of agitation over this deep, dark yearning of hers to make beautiful things that people really care about (again with the recurring theme–care enough to part with…
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Break the illusion + Contradict the ignorance =Change the perception
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What if I told you there is no such thing as darkness? Try "a deeper shade of light" on for size. It's a nice image to play with, at any rate. There are a lot of different ways to get from Here to There (and Here is just as good as There so what's your…
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Saturn's had the upper hand these past three years. All sharp edges and rock hard resistance. Walking (and waking) would've been a hell of a lot easier if angles curved and moved out of the way. Surfaces have simply refused to yield. You can tell how swell of a time it's been by my bruised…
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The InvisibleSeen only in the right lightSets one's heart aflame
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Got another reminder today to get off the fence. That makes it Sign #9 for the week. You see, I'm stuck between decisions, i.e.: new road/old road, challenge/piece of cake, money/memories. I'm also wedged in pretty tight between this big blue sphere and The Void. So, yeah. Hop on off that parapet, say The Forces…
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side by sidewe watch the neighborhood buckle and bubbleall sorts of trouble is in the making shift and slidewe used to know where to hidebut now we wear our tarnished heartson the outsideour desiccated soulsrendered thus by pride Midnight, stark and starless, makes its move to renounce the light.
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An upright knight has made an offer: "Ride into the hills with me." Flask in handHooves pounding sandHit the trail all romantic likeUnder the hot whitePocket full of starsAnd coins so brightThey chase down everyLast shadow. The night never stays for long. A stranger.An angel in cowboy boots and a 3-piece suit.A savior. Check the…
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My name is Reed Wallis. I live inside a faux bison hide tipi more than likely at the end of your street. I carve initials into things, like T.I.E. on the gray, axe bit-mangled post which supports your letterbox. I like ladies called George. One of them slipped me this on the back of a…
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a breakthrough at 22completely forgotten by 60the work, at the time, was truetrue to an ideal that never quite fitbut tenacity was the whole point of itkeep rewinding those spools of thoughtuntil an answer breaks through the membranein random perspectives and cloudy horizonsabsolute mastery of nothing awaitssweetly we shall slip into non-existenceand rejoice in…
Semi-Daily Scribbles 