Empire

A bomb drinks Mommy.

Unclear.

The original thought(s) I had were ill.  These include pain failure Sartre war and krack.
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Self-harm via negative thoughts about myself and my life have been a major part of this blog.

A father who is a writer and a philosopher is my doppelgänger.  I search for majority and domination in the thoughts of great philosophers like Sartre and Hegel.

There is a bitch in my mommy:  a projection.

A goddamn moose equals black.

My father was a soldier and had the philosophy of a soldier.  He believed in getting things done quickly and efficiently in an organized way.

I never chose where I put things.  I just left them on the floor for a later that never came.  I still do.  However, for the first time in my life I have arranged those of my books that are unpackaged in alphabetical order by author in the three categories of fiction, non-fiction and poetry.

This droning is a very dull self therapy.  That much I can tell you.

I have produced a numb person.

My goddamn world thinks about my hope for broads.

Maybe the reality (and Being and Nothingness is, it turns out, a non-realist philosophy) acts too much Bruce-like.

I have asked the Goddess to inspire my words.  This is not what I have expected.

On the horizon, all fag moments .  One more sickness to address.

I miss all the artists like Maureen Anderson I used to know.

The trees and mountains here are so green.  I enjoy them.

I love the sound of the surf across the way in the middle of the night while I am smoking.

Bob bob bob bob.