I can't think of anything else to right. I left it all back aways somewhere in some corn field or maybe turnips, I can't remember. I was digging a whole lot in the ground. I smelt like earth. I left it there, and now my writing is left, not right. I can think no more. I can be. I am beyond choice. I am guided by my guidance guide. I sing alone. I listen. Music. I pretend to play sometimes, and sometimes I really play. I love to flirt, and I flirt to love. I die in my living. I write stupid little sentences about writing stupid little sentences. I seek...

PEACE - Tristan