bullshit is usually the cause of bullshit and i wont listen

there is a madness that dwells at my centre, where the incessant drumming of my pulse echoes. here, words collide and crumble, contradict and collapse upon each other. i cannot settle for ordinary or handle ordinary because somewhere there are explorers sleeping on the floors of deserts and jazz musicians playing ’til sunrise. there are madmen jumping out of aeroplanes and vagabonds falling asleep nestled in public parks. i’m convinced that there is a place in this here and now, this year and century, this wide fucking world for visionaries who have cocktail teaparties on balconies. for scholars and raconteurs who make each other dizzy with debate and live atop ever-growing piles of literature. for poets who seclude themselves for countless hours at a time to mull over a single sentence. for gypsies and warriors who sleep only when their bodies collapse in exhaustion, but never defeat. for bleary-eyed romantics who indulge in behaviors that cut ten years off their lifespans and add ten paragraphs to their life stories. i’m convinced that existance is more than a waiting room packed with tabloid magazines that clutter the mind, colorless, easy to swallow, f.m radio, sex in the missionary position types of people. when i tune out all the world’s clutter and filler and smalltalk, i hear the faint echo of fireworks. every day is spent trying to find their source. and someone to share it with.