consciousness, no punctuation, a wild horse who, for some reason, raises one foreleg higher than the other but looks absolutely beautiful in her movement gliding across the plains of the clues. but here is where i get off track, here is where i begin to try. surrealists can be fascists right? and by the way, drop the need to come to an ending. i guarantee surrealists could give a shit about endings, about tying everything up. and here i am off on a thought again and i can see how thoughts interfere with writing. slowing down helps so much. i speed up whenever i’m in the throes of a thought and that derails my journey. trump’s hair. it’s on fire at times and other times it’s a sand castle waiting to be washed away but that will not happen. you cannot catch something which is not a solid body, you can only trace its decay.