Stray Writings

(XVII)

Although most of my life is spent alone, being alone scares me. It cedes the control of my heart. I wrote to make my thoughts commodities I can control. From my emptiness and fear, I weave my puppet strings, rubbing against my callused hands. And the world will dance. And the world will obey.

Other than how to spell it, I know next to nothing about dada. I’ve read no Gertrude Stein. I’ve only known who I wanted to be since I was 31. Of course, the same could be said about when I was 25. When I was 21, I was known primarily as a smoker.
I can take a much deeper breath now. I’m looking into prayer as a way out. I just want to have some place to put life. My feet are whispering conversations with the city’s concrete.
Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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