Readability Index: Strangely Readable
Well. That story didn’t look as intense as I thought it would. For some reason while I was writing it I was getting really hyped up about the whole thing. I feel that I have failed to convey my outrage.
Nevertheless, I am breathing now. And I will forget the man who interrupted me, and remember the man who is my brother, who has a little girl and a wife, and likes to eat food while drinking grapefruit juice, and the man who is an amalgation of starstuff, as Carl Sagan would say, and the man who is a thousand worlds, as Neil Gaiman might say.
Yes. I am at one with the universe, which is myself, and therefore how could I ever be not that. If I could be at two with the universe. Or at odds.
But I am not either of those.
I am one and so are you. We are two. Who are one. With the interrupting man.
And my girlfriend, who keeps interrupting my thoughts while she makes muffins. It is 12:42 at night and we are about to eat some fresh muffins. Got to love that!
“Want to listen to French music?” she asks.
She. Is. Crazy.
And there is a shit ton of dishes to do.
And she is interrupting my thinking!
Nope, just going to breath(e) while the weird French music plays.
I love her. She is myself. And I am obsessed with her (myself).
I am obsessed. With myself.
And the muffins need more time.
Just going to breathe…breathe in the nature of the universe and breathe out the nature of God. Count the name of God aloud and…sink into the depths of love and brother feeling.
And sister feeling.
Sounds like a couple of things one might get in trouble for.
I am so calm and smooth like limestone from the Haut Cotes de Beaune. I am so smooth like worn limestone. I can feel Michelangelo shaping my left toe. And it is so cold that I am the cold and the hot and the candle on the table. I am the shirt that I am wearing. And more importantly, the shirt is me. And I am obsessed with this shirt.
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