I was on the edge of a cliff and ready to fall to the state of alertness. So many ways to die for breakfast. Here I am with a Hammerhead siding the garage which is my cranium. My Post-Asemic Press business coffee mug is black and white and covered in scratches. I drink French roast drip coffee out of it in the morning as I work on the writing I assign myself. My coffee maker isn't fancy. It holds 12 cups and has one switch to turn them on and off. This is Internet writing, so I don't obsess over typos or sentence structure. This is a journal I am writing for my own amusement and the easily offended. The skin is thin. And it's my earthquake fault, there now someone feels important. Dreams caught by the spider writing team, 8 legs in the corner and up near the crevice of the popcorn ceiling. Webs and I'm a man. It's early and I should read a book to Belle in a few hours when normal people awake I think I will crack open Petal Pusher by Laurie Linden. She's local and passed away awhile ago. I don't know much about her. But Huge Demons probably knows who she was. She was a writer and musician so perfectly compatible for my mind. It's a small town sometimes and I still don't even know all of the local rock stars. Should I enhance or destroy rumor mills? Or keep on micromanaging every detail of the assaulted Earth. Are the wild places damaged and gone forever?
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