In a world of significant study, everyone bitching about their purpose and reality, I choose the less direct approach and try to keep to my lonesome self. Diving deep into my hobbies these last couple of months, I never see past my own personal goals, no matter how worthless they may seem in the eyes of the people that truly matter to me.
Shit happens, far and wide and I cannot take the less significant bitching about their sense of knowledge. Of course I live like a Street Urchin, hardly sleeping with too many words to express on paper. In a statement of truth and fulfillment, I have spent more time fishing than I have balancing on bar stools, (You are growing up Tyler) but my breathe still had whiskey on it, but usually on the dying weekend or the lonesome day off from practical but draining existence.
Bowfishing broke me a bit, but breaking is almost expected of the summer. Remember the the good ole days when Summer meant bliss to a person? I cannot, please tell me how it was. The past is as dead to me as most of the stories I conceive on paper, like a raw dog pen throbbing with blood. However a piece comes back from a story to benefit the fucking present. Whatever emotions control me I almost can’t foresee nor care to know.
Ha! Why do I sound as I do? (Tyler stop being a pretentious fuck) or am I just making riddles with no answer? (It is just nonsense) However, if you read between the lines you can probably figure out what I am saying. I do think most of you will not understand, but my faith in people probably matches my expectations of them liking me as a human being. The expectations probably sink like quick sand, and they see my name and picture caked in dirt and trash, a quick glance with no thoughts given.
Is this a rant? Hell if I know. A new project coming soon, but it will probably not play like I want it. Who knows? (No one) Creative stuff on the horizon, probably a bit about some paper frogs and The Boys of Summer.
In The Spider's Web 