I like it when people use words as links.

Entry 10

So feverishly adorned with hat and gown, they stride half-crazed into the open wound of humankind. Bumping into each other, knocking heads, they gaze and peer into the limelight of corrosive living, hoping to catch a glimpse of something fertile, virile, and unexplained. I was one of them, you see, I was one whose heart was an enemy to good food, good drink. My crazy laughter was something of an irony. On the one hand, I obeyed and was respected, but on the other, I was terrible. So terrible that I raced it all. I saw how corroded was preferred and couldn't keep from dipping my finger in what wasn't there. So I assumed a foul posture, and predicted the world as dead. And was it? Had life sprung up from my foolish fathom, my foolish game?
Alas, I stand questionable on the quiet earth, my visitations somewhat over, but know not what seize means, and it all could be followed by a great clandestine blowout.

"Check out www.art.net"

Entry 9

I've noticed that my posts, when read, seem to be taking you somewhere at first, but then end up leading you to a vortex of discombobulated nonsense. This I will have to rectify as soon as my writing style permits. For the meantime, the ogres sitting over there on the couch are waiting to be told about the time I watched the sunset. It was a beautiful stagnant orange, with far away clouds gliding through the troposphere. My mean gaze was fixed upon a tired old lamp, resting insistently upon the gritty shore. "Who turns it on now?" I wondered, admiring its solitude and weary cord, powerless and opaque.
Just then, who was passing by? None other than Tutankhamen, the boy king. He was, of couse, too young to speak to and spoke an ancient dialect of a foreign language, but I was happy to see him just the same. "How's it goin', Tut?" I hailed. He did not do me the courtesy of a response, but I knew he was pleased. How could an ancient king be otherwise, being hailed by a busy, malnourished, nervous wreck of a bar tender such as myself?

I want to say something. When I speak slowly, the sounds which emmit spark darkly, or vaugely. A prosperous tone, a soliloquy transfigures a measurement of breadth, and the spaceless, formless matter (or energy) begins a motion. In times, or timed, the timed figure (an ingenious method) relaxes... How? I thought for a moment my argument had retired to the wood shed out back for profuse puttering. But in a day, nay an hour, the spoken forms shelter for whatever may be at the moment. And I confess, with all this- the warm hearth and full belly not so by sweat and toil- it may only be an elastic, spiritless cough, a treadmill for a sneezing gerbil.