I did some free-writing the other night, which I haven't done in a while, and which always produces some interesting results. Not quite as "free" as I used to do, though:

There's something in the air that feels like change but maybe that's just dirty laundry poking its head out the fox hole like an aging man that has no sense of the future or understands the nature of eternity and maturity like I can't spell but try to vault over uselessness and end up smack dab in a stinking pile of it. I wish I could remember the name of that horror movie, the one where I fall asleep and dream about a happier life full of cliches and tea kettles whistling with glee to wake up the sleeping dog gnawing at my ankles and pissing on the carpet like a two year old that doesn't know the difference between cursive and cursing and casting spells to make your lover stay even if the tide is broken and there are laughing skulls dangling from the mantle piece and wondering why you can't seem to warm up even though you've got your dairy and carbs and chocolate and big wooly comforters and socks that come up to your neck and there's no weed left in the whole world and no more parties and everyone huddles for fake love and ecstasy and stupid clubs that make pool seem important and I wish I could fight like a boxer an knock evreyone on their delicate virgin asses exept that everyone's a whore nowadays and faces turn green under black lights even if you turn to face the jungle under your armpits and spread your legs to tickle someone's toenails and smell the pungent bitterness seeping from happy pores that dance like stars when they're leeking Exon oil and we've all switched to salt water to dry up our intentions cause nothing came of that bewitching soul across the table that sucks your will to care about your neighbor and insists that love comes from abandonment even though the bastard won't leave and cries herself to sleep at night long after the railing has split into fragments of doll houses and straight jackets and you're wondering who the 27th President was cause he couldn't have done much worse than the pink rabbit that keeps sniffing your ear looking for cocaine and cookbooks and maybe the mending left until Tuesday but Sunday never looked so good even if it is a shit time of the week and everything feels extra wrong on Mondays but nobody has time to care about that bullshit anymore.