An interesting thing about swords. They mark the end of your life with a swing, or as a post in the ground. They sustain your life as a block, or as they cut your daily meal. They can begin your life as a tribulation, or your first game of knights. But never does a cloud fear one. You can shout, you can swing, you can block, you can cut. You can play, you can be the mightiest of knights. Yet, it does not fear, it just floats. And when it feels you’ve had enough, it reposts, and you get wet. No direct harm, just wet. You are cold, you are miserable, you could stay and fight. Yet it is unharmed. In the end. You will catch cold and die. But the cloud will float, continue to enjoy and protect the evil ball off fire, as is its duty. One must envy the power and carefree nature of such a position. For not many get such grant and leeway. But to retreat and regroup is alway an option, and a sword is the direct, but not singluar option. For all things can be overcome. A shiny sword layed upon the ground will even make a gaggle of squirrels crowd about.  What does that mean? I don’t know, but its a SHINY SWORD DAMNIT! GAZE UPON IT!!!!! ( if the squirrels thinks its neat shouldn’t you? look…. its alotttttttt of squirrels… .common mass crowd appeal… you know you wanna… )

“First Sergent reporting as order Sir!” shouted Sergent Glumly abruputly. “Why?” retourted Commander Binkly. “Er. You requested me from the northern front sir!?” Commander Binkly turns slowly from his ashen desk only enough to gaze quizzically at Sergent Glumly. “I think you are mistaken First Sergent Glumly.” “But sir!” protested Sergent Glumly. “Enough!” shouted Commander Binkly. “You have already interrupted my freeflow thought pattern exercise, where I strategise and deem that I am worthy of more than I am misunderstood to be!” “Sir?” questions Sergent Glumly. “I said DON’T MONKEYBATH ME BOY!” shouts Commander Binkly. “Yes Si……” *Ion blaster discharge crackles abruptly* *thud* Command Binkly holsters his dischared weapon. “Hmm. Now that wasn’t as entertaining as I thought.” he proclaims unimpressed. Commander Binkly pulls out his comm device and dials the southern front. “Second Sergent Kragornith report to the Commanders post in central immediately!”. “Now, monkeybath wasn’t quite the right word..” the commanders mermers as he scratches out a word on a small text vivo-pad. He scribbles another couple of words down on a sheet of vivo-paper, and then sits down at his desk as if to ponder some more……

Pain thresholds are different for each individual. Going on day six of this delusional drilling into ones determination and measurement of ones one will or understanding of ones own limits of anguish. It does bring happy thoughts of apples and running rabbits every so often. Although that too seems to be marred by an occasional round of golf being played through the happy seen by an influx of German tourists promoting Japanese beer substitute. Some things should be purposefully dampened by an arbitrary swig of something ‘near’ like. Ok strike that, last prose, as most likely it will incite many near-thoughts.

One does tend at this point to appreciate many things that prolonged distress can promote from within the fathoms of the consciousness. Not that I have anything prolific to state at this point more so than any point of my meanderings, but its still allows for additional input streams in to the collective. If a multitude of monkeys can manage to manifest the even most meager montage of memoirs, then unbeknown to them maybe its also can be calculated to produce an infinite collections of meanderings bound by a state of all encompassing unrest.

Poems and songs are the ultimate in the artistic expression of composition. And I am no poet, not no composer ( not that it had to be stated, as it is painstakingly obvious in the lack of any methodology or understanding of basic English, or ability to construct a non-run on sentence, or near-sentence ). But I take some joy ( obviously ) in creating a semblance of words that may in its entirety, look roughly like a formalic narrative, yet be nothing more than random words or thoughts. I do no proclaim to care or sympathize with those who are so viamently structured in their ways or enforcement of the universe as it is oppressed to be. I do not mean any disrespect nor malice towards those of that type or other creative influences in any manner. I do just enjoy the wonderful entrance into ‘The Random’ or ability to freely construct nothingness, and ask to be left to my vices without agitation.

To many a sorted blue fin of whale or nest of a swallow searching for the last glint of sunshine as it is snuffed from the pool of unstars and near-light, it is assured that instigation and observation of nothingness always allows for something to happen.

For that in the end is what it is all about. The use of the multicolored palet of language to paint the abstract but incessant blotch upon a canvas. Like steam on a bowl of rice having definition but meaning only to those who choose to gaze until they see something….

Once awoken to the smell of rosebuds…… no… burning garlic okra… maybe a pungent cream pudding gone wrong… ok, whatever the smell, it was a pungent aroma that only served to dance upon ones senses as if to awaken one to the slapping fish dance performed one ones face.

Often such gibberish is gleaned upon those whom wouldn’t understand the thought of a massive influx of residual context. But then again, why does that astound even the smallest of persons? They are generally small for a reason, and that is not always understood by the many who misunderstand the ways in which height plays a part in everyday existence. In the vast reaches and pockets of society, size is not understood by the very existence of the mammals who inhabit the various habitats and ecosystems surrounding the ancestral sub-regions.

The razorbacked monkey army of the north often patrols those sub-regions, and determines their stature by what fruits and berries they may gather there. For many of the foodstuffs and culinary extractions generally end up as the main course in the realm of nether consciousness. It is in these very regions that it is determined that various concentrations of salves and ointments are produced that induce various sleeping patterns. And it is these sleeping patterns that are translated into much of what we understand today to be not more useful than that which we started with. Which for recollection and the sake of repetition is nothing more than an awful smell, preceded by the mistaken smell of rosebuds…… once awoken….

Mostly its about pain. The sort of pain that can only be instilled by nature and its wrath. Would this be that of suffering, or of sorrow? No, as that is left to the downtrodden and the country singers. Not such noble pain, but that such as a the type that bores through your skull like a small rodent in search of a piece of jelly pudding surprise. Only the green plague, and those other minions which are spawned by the evil ball of fire could ever bring such pain and misery.

Like the army of the north, it comes in waves, marching down the slopes of grey matter, chanting the songs of destruction. Every moment wallowing in the glee and satisfaction of the massive wake of anguish that is bestowed upon the channels of nerves embeded in landscape.

At some point, when the resistances fail, and the general, only known as the mindworm, flies his banner of pain triumphantly in the castle of the mind, one wonders if the random thoughts that scurry about fleeing the onslaught will survive or end up as more fodder in the pit of emotions.

But as daybreak comes, pain shall vanish, always fading as if fleeing from the light. Yet it is not a shadow so easily destroyed. For the mindworm is the general of the green plague, spawn of the evil ball of fire, bringer of the banner of pain, destroyer of the castle of the mind…..

Every now and then there is this feeling of enthusiasum or dread that impeds on ones existance, that is not discernable from a particular nor specific nor relavent train of thought. Its sort of like the stench of canine feces that you could swear you smell, but you cannot locate on your person nor in your environment. One often wonders if this is an obtuse trick of the imagination, or is one really tracking dog poop around the house or car.

I’m sure everyone feels a random, but powerful emotion of uncertainty at some point at random intervals. Now whether or not they actually admit they feel as if they should actually go about spouting that the earth is about to hear the raging new music of the sectarian figian spider monkeys, I am uncertain. But I do think that we should admit that we still don’t know where that smell actually is eminating from and that it could be related to a horde of very small chickens nesting atop your new sparkly bread machine…. or … its just that its going to be a strange day, and your can’t figure out why, just go buy a dog that matches the smell….. done….