Thursday, January 04, 2007

I'm suprised the front wheels dont lift off the ground and drive themselves into the sun.

The car ride to work in the morning is always a tragic thing. With the heat blasting, and the music so loud it hurts a little, it transforms into a perfect little incubation chamber for thoughts to percolate. They start simply with a website I maybe have been to previous to leaving, such as, and turn into a short live fantasy of shielding my own young with my body from a pack of wolves in some unknown woods. From there into martyrdom and a sick world of imagination about how it may be the only way I would want to go. Moving into territories of finding my own Ferrel child savaging the forests of France with a pack of weasels which saved little Petunia (I fancy I would name her Petunia) from being scavenged herself. I would pick her up by the skin of her back, the way I often like to imagine the crows will rescue me someday. Then I think Ellen in New York and that when the crows come to get me I most definitely will stop next in Manhattan to relieve her of the see and be seen scene that is no doubt eroding her heart, contrary to her most recent EKG.

I could go on but it is 10 after and my boss is breathing down my neck.

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