Pussy Is

1. 

What isn't it?  Just like how everything is money, and do you remember that conversation we had that night, all warm and naked in bed, when you blew my blown mind?  I know, those nights all run together, except they don't, they are all special, like run-ons that run out aren't.  All my titles begin this way in my mind, yet five months and not a single thought worth writing.  Just gotta get to that flow state, and not this steady(fast) one.  Strike that, many single thoughts worth writing, but none strung together to make writing; soundbytes all, a projective, prescient curse.  His notepad is prettier than mine.

Strike that strike, I'll tell you something good: I made it through the holidaze without giving myself a smoking headache, not that I'd ever want to go out that way, except in my Shakespearean fantasies, but even then I know I'd have to do the murdering, 'cause he never could, a death-by-death kind of a thing.  So morbid and I wonder why.  I didn't end that sarcasm with a question mark on purpose, and I wonder why?

First day jitters, last day laughs, still can't escape it, gravity-like.  I'll try again.  Sorry to hear about you, Major Tom.  Again, again.  SourceAmerica?  No, that won't work.  How about.  Longing for the dead.  How about.  Longing for the sleeping.  How about.  No.  Tornadic love-sick good-bad dreams?  Uh.  Science?  You're such a problem.  And your mere mention reminds me about correspondence with which I must ... correspond.

I love you, all you LA sisters and niggas that knows.