• It's difficult to get into that zone, that zone in which shit just starts oozing out, flowing, like it sounds gross, but that's the state I like to be in, where I'm just writing and it ain't wrong and it ain't right, but it's coming out and I'm making it, and it's telling and you're hearing it, and it don't matter if it's the most important spit in the sea, or the most drab ass, pointless ramble on the range, I don't spit for the birds, I spit for the cows and the sheep and the battering rams who live off in the mountains, see this, this right here, this is the place where I live, right here in this continuous stream, like my mind is a river and my fingers are the liquid within, and surely it don't make much sense, but here it is, feel it, dig it, lean back and float on, notice the sun stain your cheeks, rosy for the moment, warm to the touch, it ain't much, but it's all that I have, and cryptically hidden beneathe abstrusly lain words lies the images of beauty like a calm blue whale that sails unnoticed underneathe the stormy ocean waves, and here she appears, this girl of my dreams, this figment of moon beams and angel of sunrays, this ghost of the leaves, some spirit of the wind, dancing along on the tides and the gusts of the unseen, carried before me to where I can sense her, imagine her presence like the warmth or the peace, or the safety or the chaos, or the jubilation, the jubilation, the jubilation, an animation of the soul, a flip book of the heart that sings out its inner most desires, inspires the eyes as the mind just conspires, planning and jamming, just doing it's thing, creating the framework from which all else builds off of, the mind is the great creator, the architect of God, but the heart is the soothesayer, and the soul is the medicine man, and each one works together, no one is less or more needed than the other, we live, balanced, harmonious and true, green and bright yellow, red and dark blue. And this is the place where my mind wanders free, free to see, free to say, free to lay it all down, regardless of what it may be that results, as I build, it is nice, each word's grain of rice, stacking up high, high like towers of white, and as you read through, it's like one great long sip, you take it on in, and though you might not recognize the taste, you can sense that it's wet, just plain, classic water, in the form of this babbling brook.

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