I keep buying more shit like its going to save me, like its going to make everything better. I have ticked off countless lists with little penciled in check marks.
And yet, truly, I want nothing more than a complete simplification of my life. I want a wooden room with a small bed in the corner, a simple desk....But right there: "want." What is that? Why is there always a want? What inside my head forces me to keep wanting anything. Why is there no satisfaction?
I would like a mountain, with a cabin, with a... but why not? Why not strive for something that I feel can make me happy? Maybe there is a connection to simple things, a beautiful stream filled with fish. Dark night full of stars. Maybe I don't need to live by factories, and power lines.
Or maybe I should just keep on. Trying to form more lines, connect more dots.
I need to read more. I want my brain bigger, but I don't know how. My focus is so all over the place. I am trying to get really into running. In the past I tried to get into music.
Music has taken one stop back, again and again. I know its there. I know it can return.
Listen:
I want to run next to lake, and thankfully here I can do that. That is something I have, that is a goal accomplished. I also want to see a mountain out of my window, or at the least on my drive. That is something I am working for.
Another goal of mine is to be within biking distance from work....Goals friends.
I wish I could type something on here that was readable.
I think i falling.

carbon rich

oh, all is lost tonight. All is gone. Minutes and hours of searching this website for pictures, only to be brought, thought after thought, from one site to another. OFten time on these quests for more information you find yourself going down one lost corridor to another. Each though represented by a vast collection of books. A library collection, with each stack, or bookshelf of books signifying just one aspect of that pre mentioned train of thought. Say the 900s for example. Lets say that that number specifies a thought on last night's dream? So therefore, of every book inside the, "900s" deal with dreams, but is also indexed according to as many subject headings can be placed on it. So, for example, last night's dream:

Placed sideways on a large iron pillar, my legs are shackled and held firm by a large chain fastened between two iron rings. My arms are tired down by a plastic sheet, and my head is free to move up and down. I am able to immediately begin to free myself from these restraints with unknown power. I feel strong, extremely strong. Yet, with this new sense of power, and it is extreme power, I also fill fear. The sky is black with extremely fast winds, there is lighting my its long, thick lighting. A giant sheet of blue...prolonged in the sky for periods of time that seem to grow larger with each flash. Larger...bigger. I am able to run with great speed due to my new powers, I am leaping over hills, mountains. Yet the speed at which the sky moves around itself, at some point churning up great dark green and black hurricanes, each in an ocean each in outer space.

So you can see with this dream there can be a number of subject headings: Dreams about powers, dreams about storms, dreams about fear, dream about hurricanes, etc...

Only to wake up within the dream. The test is real, the indexing and classifying of dreams within large shelves of cards and numbers, each representing a dream, and eaThat itself wrapped inside of mountains.


Ok...Off to bed. Good night.

August St. Vincent awoke to his blinds slowly parting, allowing golden sunlight to pour into his small efficiency.
August, time to wake up.
"Yea yea. Close blinds."
The blinds reversed their motion and began their journey back across the window. August kicked the sheet off his skinny legs and reached for the floor. The cool stones felt good against his feet. Reaching for his cigarettes, August waited until the blinds were completely shut and his room was dark before lighting up.
"Lights, red."
August stood up and made his way to the bathroom. A small framed photograph of Fidel Castro shaking hands with Ernest Hemmingway hung on his wall next to the doorway to his bathroom. The grin on Fidel's face gave way his love for "Papa." August had read that while in the Sierra Mastra mountains, the young revolutionary had read "For Whom the Bell Tolls," for inspiration.
Music slowly began to build in August's room, slow drones that had no beginning or end. The red lights would slowly turn pink, and then become duller; maroon. August stood in the bathroom for a while with the door shut. His face inches from the mirror.

"Remind me again of what it means to be dizzy."
"Well.....First of all," and like that the weather changed. The still air was suddenly whipped up into kinetic motion. The wind turned cold and the gray clouds that were but faint cirrus suddenly covered the entire sky in dense black.