All there is are vibrations. Grab them with open palms and find them in everything you do, see, hear, feel, and breathe. This won’t last long and you will realize it far to late.
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Song of the second: Firecracker by Steel Train
Book of the moment: Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
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Location: Chicago, Illinois
Date: Summer 2010
Notes:
I leaned out my window yesterday, my elbow propping me as my weight collapsed onto the ledge. The air, moving over my hands and climbing towards my shoulder, seemed to shift in zigzags as if to say the storm would be here soon. The siren outside told me there were only minutes until it would be night at two in the afternoon. The thunder spread through the sky like a flower peeling open for the first time. Before I realized it was raining the beads were already racing down my forehead waiting to jump of the cliff of my chin.
The initial warning came about ten minutes after I woke up to another commercial on the television. It was the type of warning that shutdown every channel so no matter how vigorously you pressed the next button the only thing to change was the number in the top right corner. There was a moment where I saw tree's press their branches close together and tighten all the leaves that lay attached as if they were eyelashes guarding against wild sand. A smile came over my face and for the first time I felt excited.
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Location: Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Date: Summer 2010
Notes:
Where did the list go that you made when you were twelve? It had all the things you wanted to accomplish. All the things you wanted to do. My list is buried in a backyard I can no longer find. I can’t say with much certainty that anything on the list was ever accomplished, though, I think that was the point of the whole thing. If you think there is only one paved road to go down then grip the steering wheel and turn your knuckles white as you cannonball through the guardrail. There is no path, only the many different directions you decide to go.
Break through, break free, break out…and just go.
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"The masterpiece should appear as the flower to the painter.. perfect in its bud as in its bloom.. with no reason to explain its presence.. no mission to fulfill.. a joy to the artist, a delusion to the philanthropist.. a puzzle to the botanist.. an accident of sentiment and alliteration to the literary man."
~James McNeill Whistler
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