It's too hot to write. I wish the sun would make up its damn mind.
The fears we drown away. The razor edge of reality we dull, dull, dull with friendly sweet liquor, not here to serve us but to be served. We tumble haphazardly over a day and a night; the drink sleeps in curled around the brain lazy and catlike and choking. We are parched and baked, the salt flats from the seafloor forest of humanity.
Watching a poor artist, starved for technique (or maybe talent) sketch strangers from a cafe patio, with his empty cup of coffee and boyish striped tee. Is it for personal growth or some perceived sense of artistic mystique that he persists in these grotesques?