Office

I’m too busy dreaming to get any work done. It would be unfortunate if it weren’t instead hilarious, for there is truly no purpose to any of the work here at William Yeoward Crystal, and still less purpose to the idea that there is something the human being is meant to be doing besides indulging the imagination. If ya got it, flaunt it! Or so they say.

At present, I am somewhere in the midst of a nebula, out in the far reaches of outer space. I associate the words “nebula” and “furnace.” I like this nebula because it reminds me that out of ether comes breath, and out of breath comes life. It thrusts forth the ingredients of life like a psychotic baker flinging sugar and egg and batter and frosting all about a cosmic kitchen, in the hopes that some order inherent to the flinging will eventually result in a beautiful cake. This is, of course, an entirely insane hope, but the best hope of all is insane hope. Insanity in general has my sincerest appreciation.

I sip my Red Bull and look out the window of the new showroom. We are on the ninth floor now. I liked the thirteenth floor better. In some buildings, they omit the thirteenth floor because it’s an unlucky number, and instead number the thirteenth floor as the fourteenth floor and carry on. I find this so hysterical that it makes me sick to my stomach. I felt much better being on a true, unlucky thirteenth floor than on a thirteenth floor that was masquerading pathetically as a fourteenth floor.

This morning, I’ve been mulling over the word “judicious.” A delectable word. The sun is sweet on the horrific paleness of the building that blocks my view of anything interesting. Caffeine is an atrocious substance. I’d like to eat sushi and listen to Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music while barefoot in Madison Square Park. In September I’m going to Paris and, though the days only bring that magnificent city closer to me, I am slowly losing my mind with anticipation. I had a lucid dream three nights ago in which I seemed to have gauze over my eyes, and while I was blindfolded, someone grabbed my cock. I learned to play Bron-Yr-Aur on guitar and it makes me want to cry. I want to make business cards but I have no business. It’d be nice to receive eight thousand dollars. I want a Guinness.

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To meditate on the warmest dream

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Ryan Langan

Ryan Langan

To meditate on the warmest dream

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