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All 3 bled through without sound. I stare at the 1970s and its spawn, Eli Roth (and his predilections). Balachander’s movie is a well frozen over. I lack comedy. Twin Peaks still frightens. None of us is evil. 

Letting Go has its minimum. The Drowning Pool has a prose situation, but still is meager–despite mathematical matchings of narrative. 

Looking up at the starry sky, noting every face, every direction; these are the Cameron planes. God in each event. Earringed Pax looks at the horizon. I smell blank; the remainder driven to the outer edge. I stare into Lew Archer's moment; he sleazes into saloons. His narration nags its price to pay. If we continue, what comes about? 

Eliot Ness, defender of law, must unseat him. 

How do I manufacture a image with greater contrast? If I shrink the image will I ever see it again? Titanic is majesty--Avatar only clouded-out hell. 

From far astray to this day, born-again. Our trials ended, leaving only reflection. This new period is of reckoning; can we root out the remaining vagrancy of the soul? Is this exhaustion, or just a new physiological epoch? What is its history? How does this status effect circumstance? I, I, I--it’s always that now… What does the extreme subject become? I’ll go to the gym, ride the bikes; but how do I reestablish the timeline? 

The novelty of the written page is gone. Back to the insane and the sober. 

The writing here is better all together. I’ll strike each away till all that remains is the imperial unit. A tight wind of pages to be snapped outside of obstruction. Our only enemies cast aside for righteous men. 

Do I need to peel back the melodrama? Or is it just romance? Just one single thing seems interesting… 

How do we go back? Our dreams still just scan our natural sickness. Some simplicity makes any life lost into a greater expansion. Am I back to the evening sunk into late-dusk? (Think no further than your rolls of the dice.) 

The germs in the air from the hours of anger and mistreatment float away into the nighttime. I open the books and possess their words. Now it’s a foreign place. All the light beams coalesce away and my body centers onstage. They are coming to the darkness--our age broadens, now a new utility for young and old alike. 

You encounter an image, which leaves confidence to wait an extra moment or two. AA, a circle of chairs, lit industrially, seating church-coffeed, work-attired NPCs. Nary a reason to worry at all, just a natural way through. The structure of a period piece brings about this type of experience. Have a seat in history class, experience the simultaneous spirit that weaves the historical into the modernness of the present.

Autumn turns

We sit, still before our actions commence. It's like a windowsill--its depth there to lean upon. A nice twisting rail. The promise of late afternoon, evening still to come. Staring down the aisle. These memories do not present: in neither past nor future. 

Not in sequence; all of the peace parts, then returns to gather its new direction. A play of William Shakespeare. It's weak--there is no action, just a reading through the words. I've found a new pattern and it builds momentum. The grains of the wind by my side. All things one with God, our loveliness. 

All I can feel (and know) gathers together, surrounding--a life earned. A brand of sensation, swiftly in first, then second, up to the final heat. A bright green upon my shoulders. Proud, a single finger upright, exclamation upon my face. My eyes straight forward, reflecting the resignation of the evening.

Concerning some over-determined notes I used to call Journal

I used to write in a journal 2 different times. The first was in the terminal, the other was in notebooks. I ran out of them months ago. Habeas corpus hiatus. No longer do I glance upon newsracks and see the newbegotten halcyon of wished-fors… I see the great wideness unpresent before. The newcency of this millennium--a new 2001. I read the words and sentences on pages. When does it end? I read Twitter in total regression. I see everything as I did before the 4chan turn. No longer do I render the scenes of neatness into isolated personhoods. I stick to the gleaming reaction of the turntables. Of Edward, himself, and his wishes…