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.

Google search:maelstrom

you and the parentheses (parenthesi?)

We measure our lives in teaspoons and our semesters in breaths. At the end of my life I'll let out one long, hopefully non-verbalized (uuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnghhhh) breath; at the end of the semester I'll remember TO breath. Maybe I should work on my last breath. Perhaps I can make it a strawberry ("bpthbpthbpthbpthbpthbpth"), and hang my teaspoon on my nose. For some reason that reminds me of the dying hero-monk character in the Russian film "Octpob" (Oh-strove, approximately - not "Okt-pawb"), who, as he lays himself down in his coffin ready to give up the ghost, is pestered by his well-meaning and repentant brother monk. When asked what the monk should do with his life - his final thoughts, as it were - he breaths, exasperated, something to the effect of "Just try not to sin too much."

"I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." (T.S.E.)