SOLLLLLITYUUUUUUUUDE!

And it's like there is no key for my imprisonment in this frontier land. Nothing but every sweat I suppurate for each lonely run I schedule and commit to each day. I need excitements not committed to, and nothing is offering. I exhort the execrably untimeliness of my seclusion.
A run would be better sweated with one sultry sexiness, wouldn't it? Or at least a friend with whom I could console with on the fact there are no bare-bottomed hotties running out from the greenwood and abreast our own wood-s. Yes, to see every fine particle of sweaty essence coursing unctuously down a slick-skinned spine and to the comely bone corrugation just above a jiggling hot ass. I can only smell my half-sex-smell as I recline on this table chair in a dark, tenebrous, desponding dining room. Not even the tap of sylph heels up the stairs in an ascent especially to greet me. NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Something unexpected! Something so ineffable and obtrusive that grabs me by the shoulders like the scruff of a wrongly stabled stallion and rides me to some ever-increasingly illuminated incandescent point of light until I am shaking and angled and cocked to heretofore unimagined vistas of utter bliss and unununmirthlessness. A sexual experience, a mono-course-surpassing galvanization that just screams "HEY, I'M HERE TO JUMP YOUR CABLES AND SATURATE those languishing lodes of your mental repository so that your brain convulses its locks off and lunges into the slickness of future-come as A FUCKING BEAST!"
Maybe if Summer Glau descended in a metallically mottled space gondola to my bed with some mellifluous incantation like " I am here to extricate you from this sub-space sepulcher, with me into the aether be revived." That'd be ... wild.

Pores in a bruised matrix

What a drab existence, when removed from what running days scudded by weeks past. Plans even fail to summon strength enough to gurney me up and away. Trying to get from this stagnation should entitle me something enjoyable, but I need more friends than the creatures sparsely bold enough to just cross my path.
Wildlife? Nothing so wild there.
Should a stab at night-waking suffice? I can barely drape my eyelids above these starry eyes. I'm mute to a verbalization to my surroundings, can't ruse myself out of relapse upon relapse into bemused boredoms. It bewilders myself.

When I was a youngster, every once in a while I was granted a ride on the tractor. I don't remember ever mowing, that's a dangerous thing not to be attempted by a child as I reason. Though I most certainly was told that I could drive the tractor around our field.
So I did. Unhinged to any wagon, with my grandparents out in the garden, I felt pretty free. That enticing smell of engine effluent I drew in in drafts through flared nostrils. It didn't smell too healthy, so I'd keep myself to breathing more of the good air. Even then I could enjoy the hint of gasoline.
There's a special allure to the track left by a tractor. The grass would twinge as it went under wheel, then a back view to where the grass surfaced showed it pressed down. There wasn't some crude imprint in mud or soil, there was a rich green of cross-hatched grasses.
After any admiration of scenery, there was the liberty to take the tractor to great speeds. There was a special procedure, pushing a shaft to specify the maximum speed. The composure adopted in this seat of control was an empowering thing. The jolt of a sudden acceleration had such an enlivening zing.
Yesterday, I was driving the tractor. It was a short trip, in the soft glow of barn-obscured sun. I noticed one thing the previous day, about how the capacity for speed was not too great, and contemplated this. But far from dwelling on this, I was quick to give a goof's glare to my grandmother as I passed by.
However, as I tried to engage in this frivolity I noticed the intent in which she was following the maneuvers of the tractor. Such was the intent that she would jump any moment I might stray the slightest from my path and closer something fragile. I stopped the foolish facializing and pondered this.
Why do people think?

Tincture of Bus Effluent and Balmy Breeze

An electric organ synth-tone is something good. It has a crunch that almost matches the guitar that we all know and love, but with an unfamiliar exotic tinge. I welcome that, it is not a taint. It sounds like water gushing through Sega tubes back and forth between your un/hidden skin and an underwater Sonic world. It doesn't much wet you or in the least make you a sopping mess, it creates this futuresque film on your person. It is some kind of chic future development. Contained as it is, but with an exhilaratingly streamlined punch.

Humidity hangs

I want to strut like a cowboy. Maybe I'll kick open a door, have it swivel back and on it's loose hinge and hasp get stuck ajar. I don't want to have a slack-jaw, I'll have a sure jaw, swift to mark my gritty wit. I'll wear the most earthy rust-colored cowhide trenchcoat. Whip whip, as I strut I'll throw the cape-like tail at startling intervals to reveal the sturdiest and most sable boots. The spurs will glint in the tavern light, and the sots at their drink will be as the most servile of stabled horses as they begin to stare from behind the curve of their mugs. Their sips will be stifled. They will hide in the shadow of their stetsons. All will be quieter than the murmurs in old city alleyways.

I will lift my hat, set it on the counter. I'll turn to face the craven crowd, and with my rough hand bring my hat back upon my head. Then the only sounds will be the plod of my boots, out into the desert night.

Laze

Just lounging in the hollow of a semi-sphere chair, in the dark lair of the living room. My brother is baldly playing some video game, I am hairily sitting and scrounging through the internet dictionaries to some wordy avail. Well, I'm more half-using the internet. Most of the work is taking place offline.

Right now, I have got nothing to say. Too busy listening to a conversation between school's-end students, too interesting.

The Potter's Wheel

Such are the ever-going day cycles of our lives. The diurnal plane, it's engraving with thought and memory, of rue and rejoice. Like the potter's wheel, it begins a new spin with each new endeavor. The clay is there for any guiding hand to mold, and as long as there remains a power to supply the circumvolutions, the potter's wheel is an everlasting and tame instrument. With the potter, there is always a renewed slate upon which to lather the clay, always a fresh caking of earth upon the palms and tender inner-finger at the spin's end.

There is always a bowl of clay at the end of the session. Surely on the shelf it collects dust, but it is also an icon of the day, a unique shape which to recall for the next use of the potter's wheel. Recall it and with clean hands shape your share of Earth this day, as tomorrow and with the cycles of the sturdy potter's wheel.

Today I went for a walk of two hours. Down the uneven asphalt road, past the usual houses, thinking thoughts of the normal sort. The tiny tintinnabulations of wind chimes rang from the entrance of one of the houses, a kind of house with multiple wind chimes enough for each soul in the home. A Berenstein Bears sort of situation. I might have seen some familiar faces had someone came out of that house to silence the ring and say "hi," or if it wasn't so cloudy as to remove the need for a pleasant garden-hosing. Although, I did see an old man who was nice enough to say hello.

Office Call

All by my lonesome! What a whimsical phrase. If I were to say "Oh, I am so alone," I would be a pity pauper, but saying that first phrase is much more... inclusive. I am not excluding myself, I am rather being self-inclusive, as shown by "my" snuggling the padded word "lonesome" like it's my fluff-puffed old teddy. 'Lone? Yes, I have some of that. I may be as colorless as a cauliflower, but at least my sub-bushels of buds show that I am occupied.
Well, 6 minutes ago the office phone made it's ear-friendly retro-pop keyboard sound, beckoning me to answer. Of course, I did, and happily so. Someone wanted to know the extension for Professor So-and-so. The way she enunciated the name was comforting. Her speech was like a new grandmother's, maybe what a content midwife would sound like. I didn't have what she wanted, but I proffered other lines of contact. of e-mail addresses tacked to a cork-board an arm's length away. of the secretary that would be in in a short while. She was untroubled by the news.
Untroubled! She didn't intone a mote of aggravation. She truly had a pleasant personality behind that voice! She began revising her plan, folding it over without a crease. She hadn't been able to make a phone call to this professor earlier, as she casually explained, but she figured she could try again. For a very subdued thirty seconds, I listened. I felt grateful. It was a warm two minutes.
This conversation was easy, and flowed as easily as if it were between friends. A tingle had risen in the soft-skinned spot between the back of my ear lobe and the bone.
After the call I returned to my lonesome, calm as if I were recumbent on a rowboat with my eyes to the clouds.

I am alone in the cozy third floor office of a three-story hall on campus. No one is around me, only the stacks of papers and manila envelopes stacked to the probable limits of manageability. But I think they were put there to assume the pleasant appearance of a secretary's work, to be comfortably in line with the image of a cute and busied middle-aged secretary. Because of this they are more welcoming, endearing as when grandma drapes the blanket across your shoulders. This is a very soothing place to be, my mind untroubled by stresses in this burrow in the wall of a building in an already quiet campus.

When I turned my chair to look out the floor-level windows, I noticed the snowflakes falling. They fall like small cushions, each a part of what the boy inside me hopes will become an even larger white pillow snugly hugging the calm ground. I hope it covers the small cafe's rooftop and window sills. Already round as a Christmas hut, it would add perfectly to the scene. The image is serene. This snow white makes my eyelids heavy. The rotund powder snow drifts match the puff of a sleepy eyelid. All in all, there are warm feelings.

Distaste for the minimal amount of opportunities, either taken or presented, while younger.

I am not old, but those years of cultivation having just passed by, I am envious of those who were granted full control - or at least the full reward - provided by those years so fruitful. A garden path walked by the princesses as I, a half-man, eyed the outside of their maze in an unfounded aloofness. Every fruit is theirs, and the scene is beautiful as an animated oil painting, but everything that sustains them is distant from my hands. If only I could have used my legs to follow that princess instead of my eyes. Even my eyelids were only half-open, as I spent my time nitpicking. Why should I admire the way she gleans new and exotic morsels with always-careful plucks of her hand, when I let my physical faculties go to waste? Why do I deny myself experience, why do I deny myself the chance to walk by her side?