experiment 39 : 22.

all right.

so, check it.

i have to take issue with the fact that the only representations of the muses i seem to be able to find are along the lines of this kinda bullshit.

cuz none of mine sure as shit look like that.
i’m one of those writers : i’m not gonna call myself an artist cuz it sounds too fucking pretentious, something i’m working on : that feed on the muse.  but i feed in a way that is almost spirtual.  when i see her the words come.  the images and ideas come.  creatively and academically.  
sometimes she is aware of her musery and some times she is not.  
some times the feeling that births her is unrequited, often it is not
or is sometimes partial.
some times knowing her brings me nothing but misery 
but still the words come.  
and still i ascend.
she allows me to ascend.  
or, rather, feel as though i am.
narcotic.  
whoever she may be.  
sometimes more than one is present.
or one fades away and leads to another.
some times the muse is a boy in class i’ll talk to only in passing.
and sometimes the muse finds her way into a narrative
where reality and the illusory converge.
dialectic.
prods my fingers into words running around the block screaming
with joy.

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