Culled Blog Draft/ Gratuitous Tired Post #1

The words roll like an avalanche, being pushed by a vicious gravity. It isn't a sentence, it's a calamitous cavalcade, a rolling maelstrom, behind which the residue of experience is left: it is a sentence, a sizzling white wake that dissolves into the blue.

It swirls into the eddy of a paragraph and piles up against the others at the checkpoints and the margins. Eventually the story will swell and coalesce into an explosive potential.

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A & B This Time Instead

A. Sitting down for class, a friend of mine pulled out his new pen, setting it meticulously before where his open notebook was to go.
"I've got a new pen." he said.
During class we read an article on Intellectual Property and Virtual Reality. Afterwards he told me it had frustrated him.
"As an avowed Marxist," he said "I don't believe in private property."
"Can I have your pen?" I asked.

B. A couple of Robins stood talking on the brick sidewalk. One, with his back to me, was obviously haggling the other about something. The other noticed me. With a quick look over his shoulder, the first quickly dropped his fare on the ground. It was an unfortunate earth worm. The other snatched it up and they both flew off, rather hastily, in opposite directions.