Life flickering in and out, directionless, and without direction annoys and leaves me unclandestine, the world flippping like acrimonious large. It can simply be the continuous struggle of forward momentum, brought about by the ever expanding light of day. Do do do, eat eat eat, continue, on and on and on and don’t stop. Isn’t Kerouac kind of a fraud for planning so extensively beforehand and the editing after?
Who knows what world find itself in the weird assuage of corollary lost dementia - seen unseen felt feel time lost lacking not the way of felt time the weird rage of loss and burn and there is sort of this connection, inconnection weird reconnection of parts one sees clearly in writing and not writing and one doubts whether free writing or not free writing is such a thing.
