Monday; the day where the week begins, unless you believe the week begins on Sunday, in which case, Monday; the day where the week reaches its second day of the week.

That sentence was pretty weak, all things considered.

So anyway, I’m sitting on a chair and perhaps I am on a ship of stars, and I wonder as to how long the floating device of the given route will contour all the contractions within the context of salient actions. Perhaps the twisted nozzle will see what does not find itself comfortable on a given breeze, but the tundra calls silly words into an orthopaedic craunch machine.

Whether I wander fro and forward is immaterial when it comes to the plains of planes made of… doughnuts… but that is no reason to reject the circle as it happens upon whimsical seriousness in a suit that says “Ah, I’m a suit”. You don’t want to know about that anyway; it serves no purpose. But perhaps it doesn’t.

If the arms were to gargle the effervescent chimeric reaction that leads to the platitudes plateauing, then would you not also look upon despair and say to yourself, “Blessed”? Would you not find yourself shaking fists with the beef? And where is it anyway?

Never in the history of never has there ever been an ever, though time passes orthogonally in these situations, you must understand. You must also understand that the laptop’s keyboard is flapping about and it’s quite annoying. So long as there’s no wind or rain within this cradled shelter of comfort, I should be fine, but until that happens, I won’t know, and so I think about the liquid that sits next to me and I look at its alluring embrace as it says to be “Stan“, and I think about allowing its cool liquid state to pour into my throat and then into whatever lies beyond, and I wonder if this really is the true path, or if the oranges that await my return are going to be made and passing, or if I really am the hero of my own story.

Then again, if I weren’t so beholden to whatever it is that twists the knife into a cart, then perhaps the questions would never form. Perhaps that is what needs to be pondered, but if the leaves line the walls and the screen turns dark, is the couch really green, or is it more just an imagination of a table that stands at a distance, not used for its intended purpose, and fading into a blurriness that I’m trying to imagine, but cannot quite do so due to whichever restrictions have been placed between itself and I.

Surely there must be other ways, and surely the red and white and brown and green will remain distinct, and then I’ll see where someone’s jumper finally reaches its breaking point and transforms into a suit of skin that looks like a jumper, but there’s no telling with those marmosets.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:42:02

Fun bit of pointless writing. Just words thrown together with little sense.

Written at work.