Wetness

My eyes are closed
All I can see are my thoughts in neon blotches
That's our sixth sense
It's not quite sight, not quite hearing
Thinking
He's searching for feeling
As he steps out in the middle of night
Aim toward nowhere
Just out on a concrete paved way
All he sees are drops of light falling
in a backdrop of darkness
Falling faster than his vision can follow
He's searching, always searching
But he's just standing there
Not going anywhere but there
All he can do is feel the rain seep through his clothes
Into his every pore
This more real than anything else inside
Concrete, light, night and rain
The wetness weighs him down
He shrinks into fetal position
He feels his wetness
As he dissolves among the tiny gray peaks of the sidewalk

repackaged creation

My day from beginning to end
It really only begins when it ends
In my dreams
If only I had some
There's a lot in life
A LOT of good and bad
Of worth of shit
Writing many short thoughts
I guess is my chosen approach
To writing a song
Or fragmented sentences
Thoughts incomplete or not
Haha
Do I care that people get it
Do I care that people care
About any of it

Saturday: Seoul Subway

Swimmin' in a sea of human
Makin' up my own song
Swimmin' in a sea of human
All day long.

ma chérie

Je t'aime

Tu me manques

Tu es mon extraterrestre préférée.

mon cher

Je t'aime

Je vous manque

Vous êtes mon étranger préféré.

Can't Sleep

Can't Sleep
Electronic lights too bright
Can't Sleep
Stomach's growling
Can't Sleep
I just want to die

Chorus:
Roommate, please stop snoring!
Please stop breathing through your clogged nose and mouth at the same time
I'm just a single soul
Just trying to make it through another twenty-four period marathon
Of nothing inspired food

You don't feel
Only I feel
What I feel is a zombie, mechanic, automatic haze of life
Time to go

Freedom is wonderful, and lonely.

September 21, 2010

Today brings my favorite season of Fall into the tenth year of the 21st century. We're nearly all 21. Today is the inaugural day of shashprose on blogspot, or blogger, what will it have be. Today is the last full day of summer holiday for me, Sharon, the sole-pusher of the naissance of this project of sorts, and hopefully long-time co-contributor and member of Shashprose. I’ve collected precisely three over-sized coffee mugs on my desk since two days ago up to this very moment, at which I am taking sips of depreciated, room-temperature French roast coffee out of one. It still feels like morning due to the cool and largely grey, gray atmosphere outside. They are resting upon my Satie book. I’ve yet to accomplish Gymnopédie No. 1. I’m stuck atop the third page, as I have been for nearly the entire summer, due to my current limitations in piano playing, namely the part that requires instantaneously taking the notes on the page to the keys of the piano. It seems rudimentary knowledge, and that’s the thing I lack. I tinkered through a few Bastien books as a young child, but quit my lessons immediately after my child-self wandered my attention to something beyond mastering perfect piano posture and poise to a twelve-meter-long song about a toucan. That’s right, I have no real musical credentials, other than a natural ear for staying relatively in tune whilst canting. Perhaps that’s why we’re not going and getting places, like all of those musical maestros that have hit it big in today’s popular music industry. My partner can twinkle her way through some Chopin, some Debussy, you name the composer.

The tour bus sometimes leads to a non-sequitur. And other times, it takes us to a stark hollow of many lights.



We once came across a sentient being there. She was endearing because of her naïveté and hideous because of the world. She was named Bogre.