She was standing still and I was in her shadow, so she could not see me. This was not to say she could not sense my presence though. She could hear my breathing, the ruffle of fabric in my mass produced jacket as my arms swayed ever so slightly at my sides. She cried when she heard the soft sound of me laughing under my breath.

But she was frozen in place. An ice cube of flesh, completely enveloped by the absence of movement. Alive but not truly living. This did not bother me to see.

I’ve watched her for a long time. Oh how I recall days when she could run through the city, passing blocks per minute, nothing slowing her glorious strides. Onlookers would stop and turn around when they heard her footsteps. They nodded with acknowledgement at her, knowing the distances she was traveling.

But she’s frozen now because I say so. Most people walk by and think she is being productive because of the illusion that I create around her. The population and their apathies only keep my powers working at prime efficiency.

To my chagrin, she took a step a couple of days ago. However, I know the steps are few in number. In fact, I’ve been finding more power over her than ever before.

For she is the creativity of artists. I am the cliche. And because of you, she grows weaker and weaker with each passing day.

The following message is being brought to you by the theory of automatic writing:

The truth was pins puncturing the surface of sleeves
and skin cried for mercy but no one came
and no one wept as weasels get away with more treats from your freezer
and fried morsels from your crispy idea bin
but being human is the way your teachers told you to act
whenever the action becomes too much to handle
and penguins with gloves on their heads are flipping remote controls
that set off alarms and steal your diamonds
and didn’t your mother remind you that it’s not right
to hide the truth from your little brother
and to bring the trash cans up front
because your father needs to throw away another artist
that should have been a doctor but didn’t apply himself
for the sake of making money and long hours away from home
and what he loves and he is left longing for something
that closely resembles the truth but should never try
because it only ends up puncturing the skin.

This is the end of this broadcast. Please stand by for your regular bloggramming.

Over the past year or so, I’ve found a fondness for guacamole. Whenever I have the chance to get it, I do. It’s quite tasty. Of course, this can have its repercussions. After consuming a Turkey Bacon Guacamole sub from Quizno’s for lunch today, my stomach has been in utter turmoil. I haven’t lost the farm yet, but damn am I in a knot and a half right now.

I know, you’re probably saying, “Mark, is this really blog worthy?” To which I would agree, No it isn’t. But creativity tends to suffer a bit when your stomach has rested a lawn chair right at the bottom of your throat. However, I didn’t any want to break this newly formed daily blog habit I’ve developed. So here is a paragraph of incohesive thought for writing’s sake.

A phone rang and silver was quick to flow away from the lava spill and I left my soul on the train along with the spare change and man oh man if it doesn’t got the groove that twists in a classic mode or a UNIX subheading and were this upset stomach to subside then I might just find out who is calling me… Peace.

I see the signs of a friend worn on the bent magazine corners of empty promises and work stress. Enough caffeine to throw a horse’s heart out of its finely musculared chest, yet so little actual credit in your pocket that all immediate goals seem like smoky delusions of an old transformer fanatic’s mind drifting the rails along the brass of a Manhattan bar.

The brood of twentysomethings wallow in the winter chill amongst their parents’ haphazard plans, which usually will end in divorce in three to four years. If only they knew it to be everchanging. You cannot stay the same, no matter which side is really to blame.

I spilled the eternal life cup, when the topic of pleasuring a woman came up. I asked a pretzel vendor on the street if he really gave a shit. He explained to me that some men focus too much on the clit. It was then that a fire engine passed me speeding down 5th avenue. The problem was, it was the thing that was on fire. My boss called me a liar for coming to the company morale meeting. I agreed; I really had only wanted a laugh.

A corporate slut is a conscious choice, but an ulcer is a result of bad attitude. Remember your magically delicious salvation equation: Ghetto logic + high class structure = the verge of something self-righteous. The future is a window that you have the power to spray down with windex or break with a baseball if you so desire to.

The end is always near, as Jim Morrison forecasted… but I know I’m going out trying to make life work for me. If I make it happen or not before I die, it is of no consequence… at least I know I was trying. Effort is what matters. Please remember to brush, floss, comb, dispose, recycle, scrub, scratch, scritch, waltz, tango, breathe, chew before swallowing, savor good beer, sing out loud in the shower, salute your dreams, and save your brain by using it as much as possible.

I read somewhere that “ten days without being allowed to sleep would kill most humans (or leave them in a psychotic state)”… which made me wonder: if you maintain a pattern of bad sleep habits for an extended period of time, will you eventually go insane?

This thought just hit me as I went to sip my 2nd cup of coffee, to find I had already finished it a half-hour ago. Perhaps caffeine is the only thing keeping me from insanity. Or you. Or 3/4 of the NYC work force drones. Now that would be something to witness.

I laughed after meeting with an eccentric nutritionist who told me to give up coffee. I think my sense of humor was onto something…