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.