in madness born - mirroros show yo reality

 Mirrros show you relaity. No, rather, mirrors show you appearance.

Mirrors show you yourself. No, mirrors show you reflection.

Meta-data. 

Mirrors show you whatm irros shows yo0. Trepandation. trepanation. Never the delete key. Or rather, teh illusionof the detlee key.The join of abrken spacebar. Is i srather the lack ofawresness that matters. Teh flow. The walk wtilman Ishing of myself. Onsnese on theverse on nonense. irritable. Inifnite. absolute.

AbFab.

Poetrry. Always the nut of it. The near rhyme. The infinte, the almost. Not limited.The argyment against reality. Moretobe said, certainly.But what of it? 

Reflection,retration. The near poetryofalmost words.Slipshod. 

Hperhaps Chirs Buehler miht enjoy.Who cansay?SAamsmith. Alater time. But Isinge asteh birds sing,forthe sake of singing. (Biologists tell us no, poets tell us so).Thealmsot talking. ofa time before typing. Albuquerque. 

It is teh love ofwords.Orather, the rlove of sound. The blur, the blend, vasoline upon the lens. 

Curious but glasses off as as good as blindness. Is there a space in that pragrpah, in that line? Icannot tell. A delcuision and a hope. Perhaps ungrammatical nonense,. But the worlds flow. the words flow.The bullhistflows. (Muder citydevils, 3863 days). But why? It is the internal narrative, the tense the chance to talk. To speak forth, to let flow forth. ndd iff if if ,there is a certain poetry to it, then it is so it is beautiful, it is the song of myself. .Absolom. 

Thecry ofloss, that. 

Asempty as a jug. Thi is always the matter.The feeling ofmeptry, teh feat of empty. Ofhavingwritteing, andneverbeing able to write again. Dowe write for an audience or ourselves?Aciritic, we compare ourselfves to our past work. Diaryryland. Tumblr, a hbope we might be heard bycertain stranngers. Fitter that way reallly. That'skindofhot.com,now dleeted.Asadness, r regret, but a eird thought of havingandneverneeding again.

neverthrow out oldpotaoe chips, you never knowwhen you might needthem again. The true knowing of want, in that. Off keeping what you do not need,thining you might need.The essenceofpoverty. I cannot tell. AndI likeit, for it is like the typing.

Ch'arrt. the beloved. Missed.Missed for hearing one offer sweet blandishments, time and time again, until in resitence is almsot a kindofflirtation. Off the hook,form my infgersto your eyes. And obscenity, andabsolution, an freedom. Absolom. 

It is not in the keeping-00tehe keeping, ...a certain ...aside, is not the point. Promiscuity?That word.That delcious word. I would have liked to have been,Itink.bvut the heart has it's reasons and that is not the way I play. Cuffing season. Brilliant, that. Oneofht beuatifies of the internet, is that when text is cheap, there is more ofit, and oneo thje joys of that is that it porives a spacefor certain experimental oddoities to play out and sto survive. What web2.0 misses, reallyh. Most people are banal and boring.ANd the demoritiziatiyon downws out the strange and surral and delightful amidst that noise of taling and fucking. Squalking and fucking. and unking. The noise of the banal, or eveeryday life. 

Redefine what it means to be a hero. REdefine. It is not heroic. That is the essence. Is the deisre to feel heroic through everyday action. ANd that is the essence of what the hero is not. The hero is not, cannot be everyday. And that is hard. It trivilizes the everyday (for is not the everyday the essene of the trivial? And that's hard. Recognizes that's hard. To be removed tofrom the heroic, to be made trivial and permanntentlhy, continually trivial. Urk. Uruuk Hai. 

Oh, the sounds, the sweet sounds.Absalom, absolom.

Alwaysst the edge, there. A missed keystroke adn I might send or might delete. Always a certain tendency. How much was I willing to risk, to risk losing? Not a game pers se, but a recognition of th sweetness. The cost of not sending so low, but also...no need to bombard.

I miss the color, that is all. That luminenscent green, rather thant htecurious blue light of a CRT monitor. (were they blue light, or something strangers? Liket the old teleivisions and their blurry inability to represnt pixels, and hence a scertian electric blue. Seems mad, but makes mad sense.se.

Music. The other thing I miss, the listenin to. Often at work, dlisten to, but always a distraction, a lessenin of concentration,, a lessinging of the application of power and ability, adn the recognigiton of that. Of being taken aawayfrom, not the fullness of attention.

Damn teh peersp in teh cars in the foundabout have good steroos. . Chuckorama.

The title is 'mirrors show no pity'. (It'sbeter wit the glasses off). 

It may amuse. Silence has it's own beat. 

Som mcuh writign, so little sense. 

Are you drunk or ondrurgs? Well no. But perhaps yet, but it's not really relevant.