Boredom/Stream Of Consciousness

Steppenwolf was biker rock. She has beautiful eyes. Pink when I turn out the lights. Aerosmith. Dude looks like a lady with big lips and squinty eyes and wild long hair. The elephant man plays the bongo drums like there's no tomorrow. The tribe sings and dances, claps their hands and stomps their feet, uses parallel construction and a rhythmic cadence. You can feel the rhythm in your hips, rocking me baby all night long. The 60's were lovely, weren't they? Does it do natural log? Shut the fuck up, she said. Don't tell me the fuck, he said. What a bitch. This shit has gotta stop. Way to not be a man, buddy. You're going nowhere. I'll live alone, out of a shitty van, selling my heart and my songs for gasoline and alcohol. Sleeping on the flight so you don't have to chat with the guy next to you. It's always some old guy. It's never that hot chick. Always a couple rows up. I hate US Airways. They killed Lucy. Jazz. Stream of consciousness is the jazz music of all writing. Writing is like music. Operatic writing. Rock 'n' roll writing (man). Jazz, cat. You dig? That's all it is. I'm a musician with words. It's all coming out like the flow of air through brass, just toot-toot-tooting it. All night long. Haze of smoke. Just going at it. Punks fought the law. The law won. This is too hard to read. She's the best girl I've never had, and the law won. English, Cinema Studies, Engineering. Six guns. I want to know, even if I don't need to know. Or maybe it's the other way around. When you're just waiting? Waiting for the sun to rise, the bell to ring, the alarm to go off, the door to slam, the window to open, the car to stop, life to end, love to begin, the applause to start, the lights to dim, the curtain to unveil, and the world to start spinning backwards. I'm waiting for my star to shine in the sky, the signal telling me that it's OK for me to go back home--an asteroid, B-12. I belong with my volcanoes. I hate roses. This world is too fake and too much. Cut the EMI. Here is a really long sentence that says nothing, does nothing, communicates nothing, but just goes on and on without end, without purpose, charged by its author to simply continue as long as it can go, to use whatever force is necessary, to insist on its continued unraveling, letter after letter, word after word, line after line, in order to, more or less, take up a whole bunch of space without actually saying a single thing, but to instead masquerade as an actual idea borne from actual thoughts from an intelligent mind created equally under God without discrimination, because discrimination is inherently wrong, since all men are created equal, whether or not you believe in God, which I certainly don't, since God would never allow such a sentence as this to exist, this wholly long, unnecessarily obnoxious sentence full of sound and fury, saying nothing, like a poem empty of words, like a blank page, or a lexicographer's mistake, or a virus that prints gibberish on all the paper you had stored in the paper tray, which is a terrible virus to create since it wastes paper and kills trees, which are beautiful and give the human race oxygen while taking away our carbon dioxide, so that really, when you think about it, how many of your friends would do something so selfless, so beneficial, so essential, and so unrequested without any complaints or dirty looks, but rather with inexplicable and dutiful happiness to just be part of the whole team, which is the kind of attitude the Lakers should have had last year when they were trying to beat that scrappy Detroit Pistons team, although this season ought to be exciting if I only had time to watch all the games, except school is just so busy and I'm always busy, and if this sentence gets so long that I'll still be writing it when the season starts, I'll never be able to do anything, because that's a very distinct possibility, as this sentence continues to just plow through this page unrelentingly, mercilessly, as if the fate of the universe depended on its continued development, as if, if the sentence stopped, so would the world, but in a way, that is a metaphorical truth, because when you read something, you do enter the world of those words, and all of you out there now are trapped in this unending world that is threatening at every minute to end with a small little black dot, a period, the punctuation that would spell the end-all to everything you know about this world, the Armageddon that would mark the finite and absolute end of all life, all death, all love, all hate, all existence, ever, in the history of history, unless this universe of which I am God and Creator were to end up as an existential quandary, like all things truly are, unless everything ended the way they do in this silly contraption we know as reality, indeed, unless everything all came to a sudden, unexpected, abrupt end without the forceful definitive decisiveness of a black little period, but, with complete intentions of grammatical correctness in tow, for it is no good to violate the laws of the very universe you've built in order to destroy it, suggesting that perfection is in what is self-contained and self-perfect, unless indeed it all ended with that eternal enigma, the unsolvable mystery, the real nature of all things, the essence of what we call reality, a question mark? Wow, I'm never doing that again. That was just way too hard. But you see what I mean by jazz, cat? That was a crazy trumpet player just going off on a crazy 10 minute solo in the heat of the song, feeling it, digging it out, sweating it out, as the room sits entranced at their coffee tables, cigarettes held between their fingers, frozen, because good God, the man is going off. How odd that sentences can just continue, to seem to wish to say so much without revealing anything significant, meaningful, worthwhile, or relevant. But let's just forget about it and watch TV. Irony.