juice box

how is it that every table at every coffee shop is always unbalanced? it's just a matter of adjusting the little knobs on the bottom of the floor piece. or inserting a select thickness of napkin-supports. now m has a sloshing green tea endangering his laptop (and lap) every time he lets up off the keyboard. tired of adjusting these things~ he needs to invent a cheap, perpetually-self-balancing table. phase 2: ? phase 3: profit.

everything that matches sees has the potential to become a life-changing painting. or story ("i twist up stories out of nothing.") it all washes away, down to the bare-bones framework; colors swirl in the sink basin until finally disappearing out of sight. do you think that your orange is the same as m's? he swizzles his own life's story-colors instinctively onto the wire, without even thinking about it. this naievete is why he will always be superior to a computer's cold calculations, its natural non-thought but yet its ever-vigilant...processing. mattress processes as well, but in a constant state of forgetfulness and flirtatiousness with his whirlwind sensory-surroundings, constantly imbuing himself in splatter-fractals inside and upon the sights and sounds, the memories and the re-analyzed memories and the noisy chaos in between the two.

every moment, if painted with a particular set and sunsetting-gradient of colors, if inked with the precise degree of abstraction that speaks just so to a certain person's own inner monologue, to their own aesthetic, with the correct shapes and printed movements, motions; every one has a drawing power, a spirit that can be found in it and if not captured, at least expressed. art can blow right through you like an icy mountain wind, mingling with the core and variably shutting down, numbing certain parts of you into absolute stunned silence, and illuminating, activating certain other dormant areas, stringing lights on to a map, brushing the metal side of the cavity in the old 'operation' game...a jolting bzzt that spirals consciousness, fresh breath, into new areas.

feelings. convoluted sometimes, but certainly indicators of your 'truth', your own self being located amidst world-wide waldo-madness. he knows them pretty well by now, knows where to juice the nourishing truth from the fruit; what is husk and what is energy, what is life~