listening to [police - every breath you take, bright eyes - motion sickness and no lies just love]

spent some time tonight revolving old ideas round the turnstyle, imagining the possibilities of where I mgiht be today without my past or where I wouldn't be without it. If I hadn't used computers and a form of escapism growing I would not be the computer geek I am today. Life on the Oregon Trail (apple IIe) was wonderful, if things started to grow sour I would restart from my last save point.

Before my mom's breakdown I would have tried to play and smile with more meaning and less reason. Too many times I had to force the corners up to please someone else. It's only been the past few years I learned to live for me and I've slowly learned the responsibilities that ensue from that point.

Just wish the answers would out number the questions that form beyond my eyebrows.
All I have to offer is this abused dialect.

turn the stereo on, sinking to it's melodies. stolen beats from the last lp, repeating ideas infinitely. droning out the world beyond the breakwater. watch the buildings decay I feel nothing but a slight breeze. step into the space between my receiver and the table where i create. compose a rhythm designed to masticate ideas from dialect. harmonic resonates voices of our past, updated repercussive sound forced from between these teeth.