Tower View

I'm taken a back. Taking a wack to the head, Jack. I look in side and it no worky here no morey. Words are not coming out easily, fluently. I sit and stare at a blank canvas. A line. An idea that has little idea. And there is no beauty. And there is only hard work.

Wishing that things would flow. Like the flow of my fingers knowing where the keys are hitting the keyboard. Knowing how to, when to, automatically, auto pilot. Flowing water down mountain top drip through rock, stone, hard substance. Finding it's way. Drip. Drop.

Wanting ideas to shine, mountain top beam truth. Wanting to set an example for myself to live by but not wanting to make that example impossibly difficult, perfect. Know that you are going forth. Slowly finding truth, but not beating yourself up over it. On it.

Thinking of icons. Towers. Built for little nuggets. Chicken fried. Tied. Peeping out of their plastic side. vibe. I see it in the distance. It is perfection. We are all gathered round. Laughing. Well rested. Well fed. And it was all worth the test.