The best writing in the world, period.  There is proof.
Sept. 18, 2002
volume i, issue iii
stream of un-consciousness

Little birds are chirping, but not because I feed them.

Today is Friday.

My leg is picking itself up and

a disaster looms in the next sentence.

The volcano erupted and destroyed the village.

But the villagers were already dead.

"What's your name?"

I have a plantigrade stroll and a winning smile. Not to mention

I think I'm turning my head sideways.


People want this:

I had a good view of the café across the street where I would go and sit when it wasn't busy. I could see somebody at my table and I always wondered about the people who sat at my table. It was easier than wondering about everybody. Today there was a young woman writing a letter. Not many people write letters anymore I thought and she seemed happy to be writing the letter. I almost smiled, but a parade came through and blocked my view.

And I give them this:

History is peeing in my bed.

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People don't float, but people are floating. People should understand this.

Little birds are chirping because of electricity and not because I thumbed through my dictionary of coincidences.

A: Andalusian kiss.

I kissed a girl on her neck (who happened to be from Andalusia).

P: Periwinkle.

I spoke to a girl who had periwinkle eyes. The color of my bedroom slippers.

Which reminds me, I once met a girl and took her home, but she wouldn't take her clothes off. Later, I found out it was because her family was poor and her underwear had holes in it. This will not be in the history books.

Today is not Friday.

Good things will or will not happen.

Monsters are lonely in dark, empty rooms.

sean. ©2002
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