Sanser Panzer
Oh, balls. What will we do now, with all of this paper and all of these pens? It’s not without precedent; not even here, even lately, or without precedent. Build them up and smack them down; bake me a cake and smack it down. Cake, all over the floor -- everybody knows it but doesn’t speak at all for fear that they may be noticed. Writers, you fools! My paint sets and modeling clay: smacked ‘em down, picked up a pen.
Writers, we’re all the same. Sometimes the walls do breathe. Angels can’t speak, but they can tickle you in your sleep. Paintings come to life when you look away, stuffed animals giggle and frolic under your duvet. Walk like a lizard, holding mirrors up to strangers, speaking not a word. Grow down, flip out, and fly a kite to the moon.
It’s not a reason why, but it’s a great retaining wall in the interim. Look at the texture of the paper, and watch the ink form. Study the eyes that read it; imagine them as robots, and name them. Learn a dying language, and write with it the greatest book ever written. Don’t learn from a book, though. Never explain yourself, ever. Study the eyes that try to read you.
Kitty is the first, though Joey came before. He’s next, then Dirk and Alex, and then more. If they say no I’ll be uncalled for and make them say yes. ‘Tis to build the greatest team of caped avengers that the world has ever known, just like on Captain Planet, but not so gay. Been there, done that, smacked it down. Once more with feeling, with gusto, and ham sammiches in the break room to make up for the poor dental plan. Sarah, even you can come. I’m Chris.
In your world, your very own world (however small), I met you again. White lights and fireworks, skipping along to the beat. Backward notions stuffed into a brown paper bag, transcribed to bathroom walls and burned alive. Puddles, yes puddles; the puddle I jumped in with both feet, not knowing its depth. Why we do what we do. Walls and bridges painted on the mountainside, happy to know you. Waving, “hello, mountains,” she said. Happy, always, even when we’re sad.
Clumsy execution on all accounts. I’ll make up for it later. Meanwhile, think blank, or blank think, and keep it awesome for the captain.
Writers, we’re all the same. Sometimes the walls do breathe. Angels can’t speak, but they can tickle you in your sleep. Paintings come to life when you look away, stuffed animals giggle and frolic under your duvet. Walk like a lizard, holding mirrors up to strangers, speaking not a word. Grow down, flip out, and fly a kite to the moon.
It’s not a reason why, but it’s a great retaining wall in the interim. Look at the texture of the paper, and watch the ink form. Study the eyes that read it; imagine them as robots, and name them. Learn a dying language, and write with it the greatest book ever written. Don’t learn from a book, though. Never explain yourself, ever. Study the eyes that try to read you.
Kitty is the first, though Joey came before. He’s next, then Dirk and Alex, and then more. If they say no I’ll be uncalled for and make them say yes. ‘Tis to build the greatest team of caped avengers that the world has ever known, just like on Captain Planet, but not so gay. Been there, done that, smacked it down. Once more with feeling, with gusto, and ham sammiches in the break room to make up for the poor dental plan. Sarah, even you can come. I’m Chris.
In your world, your very own world (however small), I met you again. White lights and fireworks, skipping along to the beat. Backward notions stuffed into a brown paper bag, transcribed to bathroom walls and burned alive. Puddles, yes puddles; the puddle I jumped in with both feet, not knowing its depth. Why we do what we do. Walls and bridges painted on the mountainside, happy to know you. Waving, “hello, mountains,” she said. Happy, always, even when we’re sad.
Clumsy execution on all accounts. I’ll make up for it later. Meanwhile, think blank, or blank think, and keep it awesome for the captain.
posted by Christoph at 8:29 PM
4 Comments:
why does poor max have a gun over his poor little head? *shocked*
I wasted two hours of my writing skill on a lengthy job application this afternoon. Why did I ever learn the alphabet?
Who needs a job when you can spend all day just ominously threatening your sister's cat, on your website, in Japanese, ominously.
They pay you for that up there? Damn, Canada rocks even harder than I thought.
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