Day 38: She Was Touching Her Face

Much like the frequent postings here so unashamedly rambling in their nature, and so unfiltered in their intent, I can find neither rhyme no reason tonight, not when the weight of another segregated pandemically-fringed night bears down on a terminally lonely man sitting solitary in a little blue house in the heart of the city of Wayne. A man trying his masked best to keep his head above the infections and his heart free from the frequent fevers running hot and hard through the streets, shimmering and flickering tantalizingly outside the hazy reflections of a smoke-stained window closed tight against the threats of a dangerous locked-out world lurking just outside. The overnight started the same as they do now most days, with hastily scribbled notes captured …

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Binder Notes

When you strip it all away, there is only the experience of us left, somewhere past all the lies and all the hurt intentionally inflicted for the sake of a foolish argument supposedly won.  It sticks stubbornly there, beyond the unnecessary daily dramas that constantly unfolded, relentless in their intrusions.  It remains a lingering monument, but one far from our personal collections of petty verbal injuries sustained on the great many battlefields of our love. We spent so much time trying to get it all right that we never really took the time for ourselves.  Or to make an honest effort to understand the parameters of what even made us believe that we were right in the first place.  Instead, we allowed ourselves to constantly get …

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Not An April Fool

You were once the unsuspecting doorway to my better life, an unobstructed threshold across which barriers of social and economic consideration became somehow less meaningful, allowing me a whispered moment to be better than I was, alone.  And I wanted so desperately to live out my whole life in that one moment, buffered and insulated from an unsympathetic world not yet understanding, safe in the warmth of your sophic, earnest embrace, my soul soothed by the lightest delight of your delicate hand. I would have followed you to the ends of time, unquestioningly.  I would have sacrificed daily at the altar of your heart, scrupulously.  I would have carried the load of our two souls- yours tattooed indelibly upon mine, the very tapestry of our love, …

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Day 10

It is a struggle to find inspiration in a world without touch.  It is even more difficult to face the isolation of a life without love.  It makes the echoing emptiness just that much more claustrophobic, the passing hours that much more hollow and depressing.  The abandonment presses in hard and it festers here, polluting my thoughts and infecting my creativity, virulently.  It defines my newly mandated and officially locked-down day and I find myself dissolving slowly, and unapologetically, into that definition. It isn’t like I have never known love.  I have loved for almost the whole of my supposedly content and productive adult life.  And, in the lumbering wheeze of another overnight hour passing, it occurs to me that maybe that has been my underlying …

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Birth Of A Studio

Welcome to the very beginnings of Typewriter Fox Studios, a multi-media, multifaceted, multi-ratcheted, multi-orgasmic, organical, non-vegan (because fuck all that), bacon beer whiskey boob depression-fueled trove of juvenile-jerk-off-jibberish and infantile doodles.  Give it a peek, try to break it, just don’t be too harsh in your assessment….it’s still just a baby.  And you have to be nice to babies.  Because, for some fuckered-up reason, it is frowned upon in modern American society to non-gay-sashay up to an infant and tell them, in tenderly adulty tones, that they need to just shut the fuck up.  Or comment upon how ugly they are and that you truly hope that they will eventually grow into their faces.    

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