It’s difficult to sit down and just write anything. there are confines, rules, set regulations that come to the tips of the fingers when one deems it time to create. It’s as if something immediately wedges itself between the keyboard and the brain. And what’s between the keyboard and you? I can’t quite say. Infinite loops of coding and thumbs up and hearts, beaks and feathers thumping around [shifting their plumage for a chance to glimmer across the width of the band], things reblogged and commented on, sent tumbling across the colorful spectrum of what is and what was and everything that is pop culture and history fading into a homogeneous mud [something like a mix of acrylic paints].
You, you’re somewhere in between there and here, where my hands are typing this. You’re somewhere between the parrots and the bluejays, the wide and short bands, the mother and father boards ticking and pulsing with some form of artificial life, the toast that looks like Ghandi, the man who ate a plane, a handful of shower thoughts, the smell of peppermint, and everything spinning and loading and buffering all in the palm of your hand.
I see it as a road with different possible destinations. Each place a part of the same street. Me, I’m all the way at the end, standing behind my lemonade stand, waiting for you and your quarter.
Little Spud In The Big Apple 