Sits there. Dark white and calm, the little raised and poked about bumps on the top cover winking a bit.

Doesn't like me much

Won't talk to me

We agree to disagree

Damn whitness

Thought on the paper.A single pillar of ineffable creative thought….suspended between two almost transculecent fingers hanging still and pensive in a darkened midair, slight wisps of natural flesh oils diving off the calm and eternal fingers and seeping inwards, into the paper beneath me, leaving something personalized and alive crouched and sprung and tied downwards in the white-time of the paper, a moniker of the strange beast that is glaring at the blank paper, with a pencil in oily eternal hand.

Stomped on the paper . little patterns of the Teva sandal soles blink up at me, faces of molded rubber and collected insect-dust smashed deeply into the white bump mold paper, melding with my old finger-oils and combining and leaving more of me and the insects ground into my shoes black dusty plastic and of the air and of Leonardo Davinci's used and laundered atoms, and quarks, and other slowly osicllating things that we assure ourselves are real to make us feel nice and protected from the Unwashed masses. The little bits of graphite that I've surely stepped on sometime along the pavement, also, lying caught in the dead and dark black-plastic cells of my sandals, and ground into the paper and left there for a while.Waiting again. Does not give up.

Spit on the paper. Moisture seeps in and discolors the insect dust and the oils and the atoms and quarks and turns it a shade of blood-soaked fog lamp yellow,the paper still sitting there calmly and orderly and regarding me, as the little bits of dust stirred and brought into the air by breath movements of unseeen beasts living grand little lives in the off-pin carpet and the thick wind from my body veloicty, settle on the patch of moisture and lie there for a long while. Black on yellow. Batman. Youth. The hell.

Ignored the paper. Exhale and inhale, atoms out and in, used and washed and scrubbed all over with a Extra Strength Bleach and released into the air, onto the unwitting public, forced upon them, rape of air molucules. Criminal actions. I breathe and the world is forced to breathe with me, for I am ruthless and cold and do not give them any other choice but to recycle my breath and use it for their own nefarious and God fearing goods, important, heavens. . My breath is the world's and the world is my breath and my laundry basket and my white plastic box of chemicals in the laundry room corner and the red and yellow label on the Windex bottle under the cabinet. Alive is dreaming, dreamtime, spots of mosics of insect dust and spit, lying still on the dark shaded shadow white paper.

You didn't read this. Go read fan fiction. Maybe Cowboy Bebop? ^_^ Yes, that would be nice. Have fun.